


All of Me Wants All of You

by anerdandanofficer



Category: PNP - Fandom, Perdona nuestros pecados (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F, barcedes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-06-30 03:26:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15743268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anerdandanofficer/pseuds/anerdandanofficer
Summary: When Mercedes Moller agrees to take piano lessons, her father insists on finding only the very best teacher for this daughter. However the lovely and eccentric piano teacher Barbara Roman shows Mercedes the joys of music and so much more. And maybe in turn Mercedes has something to teach her.





	1. Doce Tonadas para Piano

**Author's Note:**

> I was super unsure about posting this, because it's different to my last Barcedes fic, and with PNP coming to an end as well. However the story apparently wants to be written, so I am as well put it into the universe in case anyone wants to read it.

Mercedes hesitated on the top step of the house, fidgeting with the folds of her skirt in order to put off ringing the doorbell. Her heart was fluttering in her chest like a caged hummingbird today, more than the usual uncertain rhythm that it took on before an exam in class, it felt as though her heart were trapped and wanted to break free. She was not sure why she was so nervous, it was only a piano lesson. However the last time she had tried to play Augusta had thrown her hands over her ears and bemoaned ‘that awful racket’ rudely and she had sworn, loudly and to the entire Hosteria, that she would never  _ ever ever _ play again, before stomping up the wooden staircase. 

 

It had taken her father a month to convince her to take up lessons. “You’re mother would have loved for you to play, Meche,” he had said sadly, guilting her with that one thing he new would always work, as he stood at the end of her bed one afternoon where she sat sulking, “She was a beautiful pianist, and she would have been so happy to see you take it up.” The young woman’s light green eyes rose from behind her folded arms, watery and red rimmed, her mouth a hard set line. That was how he cornered her into agreeing, because Mercedes could never say no when he raised the memory of her mother, and the promise of new stories she did not know yet. Her father was often reluctant to speak of her, and these small glimpses felt so important now to the eighteen year old more than ever. It was like this that she begrudgingly agreed, to her father's delight, and he set out to try and find her a teacher. 

 

Miss Roman had come highly recommended by everyone, but including and most importantly to her father, from Tia Estella. Apparently this teacher was the best in the area, even girls from Santiago came down to take lessons from her. She had been a child prodigy, Maria Elsa had told her matter of factly as their parents discussed, and even clumsy Sofia had improved greatly after a few lessons with her last year. They wanted her to be a part of the new Santiago Philharmonic Orchestra but she had declined. Mercedes wondered, if she were so wonderful, why now she only taught? But for once remembered to keep her mouth closed, nodding as Elsa spoke, sipping at her cup of tea. 

 

After a deep breath she pushed up onto her toes in her dusty flats, dirty from the walk across town, and rung the small golden bell that hung beside the door. The sound was surprisingly loud but delicate, almost melodic, and after a moment she could hear a rustle of noise inside, the sound of footsteps on floorboards. 

 

“Coming!” a voice called out, a little out of breath. A lovely voice; for even in the single word spoken she sounded sweet and kind, nothing like the stern and grumpy old pianist that Mercedes had conjured up in her mind. And when the door opened she was certainly nothing like Mercedes had pictured either. She was beautiful. Her dark hair fell elegantly in soft waves around her face, framing cheeks pink from hurrying, and her eyes were warm and kind. The kind of eyes that look at you and make you want to disappear, because surely you are not worthy of such a tender gaze. She was tugging a loose shawl over her shoulders to cover the exposed skin left bare by her strappy dress, the translucent lavender material hiding a constellation of freckles that intrigued Mercedes before they disappeared. There was a certain aurora about her, in the way that she dressed yes - maybe somewhat unconventional, and very artistic - but more than that it was an energy that she gave off wordlessly. 

 

“You must be Mercedes Moller,” the teacher greeted her, holding out a hand for Mercedes to shake, “You can call me Barbara, and I suppose that I will be your piano teacher.” The young woman’s smile made Mercedes feel warm and nervous all over again, but in an entirely different sort of way. She tried to force herself to speak as she took Barbara’s hand and shook it gently, but the feel of those soft fingers pressing against the back of her hand took her words away. Or at least any reasonable and rational ones. Instead of politely introducing herself, Mercedes found herself stuttering;

  
“Surely not, you’re too young and too pretty to be the acclaimed pianist they told me about.” The moment it was out of her mouth Mercedes wanted to claw the words back before they could reach Barbara’s ears, her cheeks burning red and her ocean eyes widening in embarrassment. Barbara laughed good naturedly, releasing the hand that had been held a moment too long, and stepped back to let Mercedes through. 

 

“I will take that as a compliment Mercedes, come inside.” Swallowing thickly, Mercedes quickly slipped past her and wandered into the open living room, pressing the cold back of her hand against her flushed cheeks to confirm the heat dwelling there. The cold skin of one stung the warm skin of the other, and she flinched, before stopping mid step. Her embarrassment was quickly forgotten as she took in the room, the lovely high wooden ceilings, the soft light through the curtains, the cosy lounge tucked into one corner and beautiful grand piano. She jumped to feel a hand at her shoulder, Barbara’s delicate fingers splayed across the sleeve of her dress.

 

“Do you like it?” she asked, guiding Mercedes towards the piano gently as the younger woman looked about. There was a large collection of records that caught her attention, filling a set of shelves like a library of music, and an old record player beside the armchair that looked well worn. 

 

“It’s lovely,” she replied easily, quickly, and then offered Barbara a sweet smile, “you have a lovely home.”

 

“Thank you very much. I fell in love with this place the moment I saw this room, and that love blinded me slightly to the small kitchen and hideous green tiles in the bathroom, or the slightly drafty window upstairs that appears unfixable. But I still think it is worth it,” she replied thoughtfully as she took a seat on the piano stool, and patted the spot next to her for Mercedes to join. Mercedes swallowed and took a seat, their knees bumping in the small space as they both sat slightly angled in towards the other. So that Barbara could meet her eyes as she leant her elbow against the closed cover of the piano, and rested her cheek in the palm of her hand. Mercedes had her own hands bunched in the folds of her skirt nervously.

 

“So, Mercedes, I always think it best to start off by getting to know my pupils before we play, is that okay with you?” Mercedes nodded quickly. Anything that further put off having to play was okay by her, as she was somewhat dreading embarrassing herself in front of her lovely new teacher. A loose wave of hair fell across Barbara’s cheek, and she tucked it back behind her ear, the movement drawing Mercedes’ gaze. Her nails were painted a lovely blue like the colour of the sky on a summer day, and Mercedes imagined the way that they would dance across the piano keys, the stark contract of the colour over the white and black.

 

“So, what kind of music do you like?” Barbara asked her curiously. Mercedes stumbled her way through a short but varied list, mainly popular music or things they had in the house. An artist that Maria Elsa had made her listen to and she found she quite enjoyed. She mentioned Pedro Humberto Allende, and the smile that this produced, the way that Barbara’s lips turned up warmly and sincerely, made her stomach drop. She tried to think of one of her mother's other old records that she had mucked around with on a rainy day inside, if only to try and produce that smile again, but she could not remember any more. Barbara nodded along thoughtfully and listened patiently, seeming to take stock of everything Mercedes said, as though she were compiling a list of all her music tastes inside her head. 

 

“So what kind of music would you most like to play? Eventually, I mean. Classical, contemporary, jazz? Some Bach? Or maybe a little Elvis Presley?”

 

Mercedes blinked, somewhat surprised at the suggestion.

 

“I thought you were just going to teach me to play all those stuffy classics that my father likes,” she replied honestly, and watched Barbara shake her head. 

 

“Oh no no no, certainly not. I am hear to teach you to love the piano Mercedes, just as I do. Classical musical is beautiful, but I do not want to teach you to play only things you do not enjoy. Music is about emotion, you need to feel a connection. I like to try to incorporate the kinds of music that you like to listen to, so that learning is enjoyable and not a chore.”

 

“I like that,” Mercedes beamed, “what kind of music do you like then? What are you favourites? What inspired you to want to play? Were you really a child prodigy?” she found herself rattling off questions as quickly as they appeared in her head, and Barbara let her, waiting till she stopped to catch her breath before licking her lips, and smiling ruefully. 

 

“That’s a lot of questions, Mercedes.”

 

“I have been told that I am very curious.” This was usually where the other person would shake their head at her and agree in a chastising kind of way, but Barbara only paused thoughtfully and then began to go through and answer each of her questions one by one; listing all of her favourite artists, pianists and singers and bands, describing the first time she remembers hearing the piano played, telling Mercedes all about her childhood, her time at the National Conservatory of Music where she was the youngest there by far. Mercedes listened quietly, enraptured by the fascinating and passionate woman, and the way that she spoke about music, which reminded Mercedes of how she felt about books. 

 

The very first lesson Mercedes never touched the keys, they somehow ended up talking far longer than either had anticipated, and before Mercedes knew the warm afternoon light through the curtains had dimmed to the soft glow of the setting sun. 

 

“Oh no, I had better get home,” she groaned. Never had she thought that she would be sad to leave a piano lesson, but here she was, dismayed at the idea of leaving. She watched Barbara frown, feeling a nervous twinge in her stomach to see the young woman’s brow furrowed like that. 

 

“Mercedes, I am so sorry, I seem to have gotten a bit carried away. We haven’t even played today,” she apologised, clearly frustrated at herself, “I promise I will make it up to you next lesson, if you still want to continue with me. I am not usually so chatty, I promise.” The earnestness to her voice made Mercedes melt, and she reached out to gently squeeze her teacher’s wrist, her hand resting there as she shook her head. 

 

“Please do not apologise Barbara, I very much enjoyed our lesson today,” she insisted firmly, “I like talking to you.”. Her fingers pressed to the inside of Barbara’s wrist, and she could feel her pulse beneath her fingertips, beating quickly like the erratic percusion of a jazz piece. She watched Barbara press her lips together, as though trying to keep something at bay, before letting out a heavy breath. The teacher quickly rose to her feet, the piano stool legs scraping on the hardwood floor with the movement, and Mercedes fingers gently releasing their tentative hold and skating across the palm of her hand to fall back into her lap. Barbara’s cheeks were a lovely rosy pink again, as they had been when she had answered the door, though then explained easily as flustered from running down the stairs. 

 

“Should I walk you home?” she asked, voice wavering just for a moment before she cleared her throat, “It is quite late, I feel nervous about letting you walk home alone.” Mercedes carefully stood up and shook her head, brushing out the creases in her dress and trying to give Barbara her most cheerful smile so that she did not feel bad. 

 

“I’ll be fine, I promise. I walk home from Maria Elsa’s house at this time quite frequently. But, thank you for offering.” She let Barbara walk her to the front door instead, watching the way that the flowing material of her dress moved around her legs, and paused awkwardly in the doorway, uncertain of how best to say goodbye. Was a hug too familiar? Or a handshake too formal? She was saved the nervous pondering much longer when Barbara leant in and pressed a polite kiss to the side of her cheek, hand resting on the top of Mercedes shoulder. Her lips were warm against Mercedes skin, her breath tickling the younger woman’s ear as she withdrew. When she pulled back she stayed close for just a moment, so that Mercedes could smell the sweet scent of her perfume. 

 

“Goodnight Mercedes. Be careful, okay? Make sure that you get home safe.”

 

“Goodnight Barbara,” she found herself whispering in reply, her cheeks flushing at the breathless way that it came out before she ducked her head sheepishly, and turned to descend the patio steps. She glanced back as she made her way down the path, looking over her shoulder to find Barbara’s silhouette leant against the door frame, watching her leave. She felt glad for the reprise of the long walk home in the cool evening air, to clear her head and to dampen the heat across her skin. As she walked back she found herself humming the tumbling melody of  _ Doce Tonadas para Piano _ under her breath, remembering that smile. The hummingbird was back again, fluttering nervously in her chest.  


	2. Acércate Más

When she returned home Mercedes went straight into the storage room at the back of the hosteria, pushing through the boxes to find the old records from her mother that sat collecting dust. Her father did not like to play them because he said it made him too sad. She crouched down and pulled them out one by one, brushing off the covers and studying them carefully, memorizing the names in order to try and impress her new teacher in their next lesson. She was halfway through the pile when she paused, and look up at the ceiling above her, letting out a heavy sigh. 

 

“What am I doing?” she pondered aloud. Since when did impressing a piano teacher mean so much to her? What was it about Barbara that made her want to be the reason again for that smile that caused this inexplicable and odd reaction within her body. She had never felt like that before, that sensation in her stomach, that nervous warmth, that exhilarating rush. Only nerves, she was sure. She wanted to do well, wanted to make her new teacher happy. She had always been a teacher's pet in school afterall, she was sure it was only that, and yet it felt quite different. She rubbed her forehead tiredly. 

 

“What  _ are _ you doing?” came a voice behind her. Mercedes spun around, falling off balance and landing on her ass, as she looked up to find Horacio in the doorway with his eyebrows raised. Her brother laughed and lent his head against his arm pressed to the doorframe, watching her in amusement, mocking her gently with just his smirk. His younger sister frowned at him unhappily, and rose to her feet, dusting off her dress. She still had a record in her hand, Carmen Barros, the cover was bent at one corner and she pressed it to her chest protectively.

“Just doing some research,” she replied calmly, her cool tone more calm than she appeared with her cheekbones flushed and hair windswept from her walk home, “for my next piano lesson.” Her brother’s smirk widened into a grin at this. He had been convinced she would come home to throw another tantrum and declare dramatically that she would not be taking another lesson for the rest of her life. He found these episodes from his younger sister both endearing and exasperating, but now that she was growing up and getting older he wondered if she would grow out of these. Maybe this was the beginning of her maturing, and the thought both made him happy but also somewhat sad. 

“So it was a success then?” he asked. Mercedes chewed on her lip for a moment, and decided that the best thing to do was to lie, so she nodded resolutely.

“In a manner of speaking, yes, quite a success.” Not entirely a lie either, Barbara had made her feel comfortable at the piano today, a feat all of its own. With the older woman by her side she had forgotten all about her embarrassing moment in the Hosteria, she had watched the warmth with which Barbara spoke about music and how she felt playing, and it had lit within Mercedes a desire to feel what she described. That connection, that outlet, that happiness. Her brother had let her be, and she continued to sort through the records, leafing through their covers inquisitively, selecting a few she wish to listen to the next time her father was not at home. 

She should have remembered that news in their small family traveled fast. By the time she was sitting down for dinner in the restaurant, it seemed that everyone had already heard. Her father practically beamed at her as she pulled her chair in, and she almost laughed and asked him what on earth he was so happy about, until it struck her, and she resolved to thump her eldest brother very hard on the arm later.

“You see Meche, did I not tell you that you would like piano lessons?” Ernesto hummed happily as he watched her serve what she wanted onto her plate. She avoided most of the vegetables, like a child although she was no longer one and told him so daily, and today he did not chastise her for it.

“Yes papa, you did, and for once you were right,” she teased him and her brothers laughed, her father shaking his head, and she tried to hide the smile as she remembered how happy she had been to sit on the piano stool and talk with Barbara, to hear her stories and to share her own, time for that moment seeming to have no meaning. She could have stayed happily in that living room forever.

-

When Mercedes approached the house on the edge of town for her second lesson she was early, and as she took the last step onto the front patio she heard the sound of someone playing the piano trickling out of the partially open front window. At first she thought perhaps the student before her had not yet finished, but as she hovered awkwardly beside the door she realised it could not be so. The piece was too complex and played too well. The notes flowed seamlessly, weaving a rising and falling melody that made Mercedes chest ache for how beautifully sad it sounded. The music petered out in delicate high notes and the house seemed to fill with silence in the wake of it, until Mercedes pushed up onto the tips of her toes and rung the bell.

She listened to the scuffle of Barbara rising from the piano to make her way to the door, opening it looking as flustered as she had the time before, but smiling warmly to greet Mercedes as she held the door open to welcome her inside. How was it that it was so become on her, those rosy cheeks, the loose threads of hair that escaped her low bun and fell gently around her face. Today she was wearing a sweeping blue dress and a cardigan, but no shoes, her bare feet on the creaking floorboards shifting as she stepped back. 

 

“How nice to see you again,” Barbara waved her in, and offered to take Mercedes coat, helping to slip the heavy garment from her shoulders before she hung it on a hook in the hallway, “how have you been?”

 

“Very well, and yourself?” Mercedes asked. She wanted to ask about the song that Barbara had been playing, but bit her tongue, instead thoughts buzzing in her head as she examined her teachers face carefully. Her lips were painted a dark crimson, and they smiled shyly under her gaze as she closed the door. 

 

“Fine, well, and very glad to have you back for another lesson,” Barbara replied, her hand coming up as the time before to rest lightly against the top of Mercedes back, pressing between her shoulder blades to gently guide her into the living room and over towards the piano. The feel of her delicate fingers through the material of Mercedes’ dress made her stomach twist nervously, until the hand fell away and Barbara moved around to sit down on the piano stool. The absence of the touch felt cold against Mercedes’ back as she sat beside her, on the very edge, almost falling off so as to leave a small gap of air between them. Barbara did not seem to notice, carefully shuffling her sheet music to replace the complex, sweeping notes of the piece she had been playing with something far shorter and simpler. 

 

“This is where we are going to start today, and I promise that this time you will get to finally play,” Barbara advised her, smiling playfully at Mercedes as she turned to better face her. Their knees bumped, the warmth of Barbara's skin against Mercedes’ a relief to the knees cold from walking there, but causing her to inhale sharply at the contact. She felt herself shiver and thought that she should move back, but there was not an inch of space to do so and a part of her did not want to, not at all. It revealed in the feel of their limbs pressed against each other. 

 

“Today we are going to start with some… shall we say, piano warm ups. Have you learnt your scales before?” Barbara asked her. Mercedes nodded shyly, and carefully places her hands on the keys. Her fingers felt awkward and clumsy on the beautiful instrument, especially knowing how well Barbara played it, the gracefulness with which she walked and smiled no doubt mirrored in the way her hands would move across the piano too. She felt her cheeks warming self consciously under her teacher’s gaze, and glanced across to find those gentle eyes trained not on her hands but on her face. Barbara blinked, and look down, reaching out to carefully reposition Mercedes’ fingers, the warmth of her touching only increasing Mercedes’ nerves and making her more clumsy. She slipped twice, and hit the last note too hard, before pulling her hands back into her lap and cringing. Perhaps if she squeezed her eyes closed hard enough she could disappear, she thought, when she felt the gentle touch of a slender finger beneath her chin, then sliding up so that Barbara’s hand cupped her cheek. Her palm was warm and soft, and her hands smelt like dust, and tea, and lavender. 

 

“Mercedes,” Barbara spoke her name softly, and Mercedes thought somewhat like the name of a song that you can’t help but replicate the tune of every time you speak it. She chewed at her bottom lip for a moment, and then hesitantly opened her eyes, to meet those mahogany orbs that watched her tenderly. 

 

“If you start badly, there is nowhere to go but up-” Barbara began. 

 

“So I started badly then!” Mercedes interjected in exasperation and her teacher laughed, hand falling away, fingertips grazing the corner of Mercedes’ mouth as they withdrew and folded neatly in her lap. 

 

“Tranquilla. You were not perfect, but you cannot expect to be straight away. That is somewhat the point of lessons, to  _ improve _ , no? And you did not do as badly as you thought Mercedes. I do not want you to feel self conscious here, okay? In my house it is safe to make mistakes.” The way that the other woman spoke felt so calming, and yet equally Mercedes felt her heart fluttering nervously, such that she was not quite sure how to make sense of it. She smiled at Barbara and nodded, and with a staggered breath she licked her lips and placed her hands back on the keys to try again. 


	3. Tanga

Every lesson from that day onwards Mercedes arrived earlier and earlier each time, just to sit quietly on the top step outside and listen to Barbara play, like her own private concert. She would sit with the sun warm on her face, the afternoon breeze kissing her cheeks and playing with the skirt of her dress, watching the butterflies in the flowerbed of Barbara’s overgrown garden dance between the bright petals of dedal de oro flowers that peeked like setting suns between the long grass. The butterflies fluttered erratically, but elegantly, and reminded her of the piano teacher with their delicate and seemingly untouchable beauty as they moved to the notes that escaped the old house. One day it was Chopin, another something by Rosa García Ascot, or even a rendition of Imperio Argentina’s  _ Bien Se Ve _ . Particularly fitting was when Barbara was playing jazz, and the meandering flight of the insects fitted perfectly with the unexpected melody. Mercedes liked it best on a warm day, when Barbara had opened the windows wide in the morning to let the house breath and the music blew through the transparent curtains loudly, so that she could hear every note with perfect clarity. 

 

Sometimes the levity or melancholy of the tune from that day could be seen reflected in the depths of those brown eyes when the door opened to let Mercedes inside. On the days when there was melancholy there, when those eyes swam with a sadness beyond her years, Mercedes would make an extra effort to ensure she made the other woman smile, complimenting her with lavish and trying to pick her brain about female composers (as this topic often brought out a enthusiastic response that seemed to leave no room for her woes, whatever they may be). On the days when they were filled with lightness, it was Barbara who made  _ her _ smile and laugh, as they mucked around on the piano and played silly songs, their elbows bumping and their hands brushing carelessly, Mercedes trying to ignore the feeling within her stomach that fluttered nervously with every accidental touch. Often Mercedes stayed late after her lesson while they exchanged stories over a cup of tea. These evenings were her favourite, when the lesson was more than over and yet the piano teacher made no mention of her leaving, but instead made excuses for Mercedes to stay longer. A book she wanted to ask her about, a record she wanted to lend her. She would boil the kettle, and then Mercedes would have no choice but to stay until they hand finished their tea, both talking so much that a single cup could last more than an hour, sometimes two, and each lingering on every sip to drag the time out longer. Each evening as they said goodbye Mercedes felt the urge to hug her tighter, felt her breath catch as Barbara pressed her lips to her cheek a little longer. The warmth of her mouth always left its mark in crimson lipstick and in tingling heat, the memory of that kiss against her skin the whole walk home. 

 

Barbara always watched her leave, resting her head against the doorframe as she waited until Mercedes’ was completely out of sight before closing the door, even if it was freezing cold and dark out as she left, in fact those evenings more so. The later their chats dragged on, the more nervous she grew to let the younger woman leave on her own, and soon began insisting on walking her at least part of the way home.

 

“But then  _ you’ll _ have to walk that part back on your own, and  _ I’ll _ worry, which kind of defeats the whole purpose,” Mercedes pointed out, her eyes crinkling at the corners in amusement. She watched Barbara frown from where she stood, arms resting on the top of the piano and shoulders crumpling as she admitted defeat. She couldn’t deny that her suggestion was somewhat illogical, and she drummed her fingers on the wood for a moment, before a better idea came to her.

 

“Okay, fine, you are right Mercedes. In that case, I would suggest that we make our lessons earlier. Or that you at the very least call me as soon as you get back to the hosteria, so I don’t spend all night tossing and turning, hoping that you got back okay,” she suggested hopefully. Mercedes blinked, and felt her stomach churn at the thought of Barbara tangled in her sheets at night, staring at the ceiling, thinking of her, worrying about her. She shook her head, causing her soft curls to bounce around her shoulders as she turned on the piano stool to look towards the window. As though pulling her gaze from the nervous pink line of Barbara’s mouth could dispel the ridiculous image, and the way it made her skin flush warm, crimson no doubt spilling across the back of her neck. The curtains were drawn back today, so that she could see the Inca Lily that grew in the garden below, the frilled curling edges of its pink petals reminding her of the hem of the dress that Barbara had worn their last lesson, the way it had grazed the backs of her knees as she reached up to pull a book down from the top shelf that she had wanted to show her. How sweet it had been, the way she had excitedly explained that she had found a copy of the novel that Mercedes had told her about, and had already read the entire book, having spent the weekend curled up in her arm chair devouring it page by page. It had struck her then, and struck her again now, this delight that filled her chest at the idea that Barbara thought of her even when they were not together. 

  
“You really worry about me so much?” she asked shyly. There was a pause that filled the room, and then she heard the quiet sigh pass Barbara’s lips, before she looked back to meet her eyes. 

 

“Of course I do Mercedes. You are more than just a student, I would like to think that… we have become friends, no?” Barbara gave her a tentative smile. Mercedes grinned back at her, and nodded quickly, thrilled to hear that Barbara thought of her as more than just another student with whom she was paid to spend time. It should have been obvious, of course, there had been more than a thousand signs clearly demonstrating as such, but Mercedes had never quite been very good at reading people. 

-

On the weekends Mercedes often found herself longing for her next Monday lesson, perhaps sitting in her bedroom playing a record that Barbara had leant her as she read a novel, getting distracted from the words of her page as she let herself get lost in the melody. Or quietly practising on the piano on a lazy afternoon in the restaurant when customers were scarce, trying to recall the way that Barbara showed her to move her hands across the keys, remembering the warmth of the way she wrapped her arms around her from behind to demonstrate, soft words against her ear “like this,” as she placed her hand over Mercedes’ to show her. How Mercedes had swallowed thickly and hoped Barbara could not feel her heart racing twice as fast as the tempo of the song. After several weekends like this in a row her father insisted that she leave the hosteria and get some fresh air; take a walk, go to the shops, buy a new book, or visit Augusta. The last suggestion had made Mercedes groan, she was not in the mood today at all to have her good spirits brought down by her ‘friend’s sharp tongue. She was still floating on the warm feeling of Barbara telling her she was more than just a student. A friend, she sighed happily, and yet the word felt tight across her chest. Well what  _ else _ , she thought to herself crossly, what other word would there be. 

 

She pulled on her coat, the coming Spring winds still had a cutting cold edge, and wandered down the small main street of Villa Ruisenor. Past the small grocer, with the bumbling old man who had worked there as long as she could remember, and the gossipy women from the hair salon who could always be found in groups and pairs around town, whispering in corners and watching everyone inconspicuously. She was feeling somewhat nosy, distractedly watching Maria Elsa having a whispered conversation with the priest across the square that appeared slightly more heated than you would expect of your standard ‘will you be helping with the easter celebrations this year?’, when she ran straight into someone coming out of the post office. She felt her front slam into theirs before her brain caught up, and stumbled backwards, rubbing her head and apologising profusely, when she realised that the poor woman she had just inadvertently headbutted was none other than her piano teacher. Barbara laughed, and reached out to touch Mercedes forehead tentatively, running her thumb across the red mark appearing just below her hairline and biting her lip. 

 

“Mercedes, I’m so sorry, I didn’t even see you,” she apologized, hugging the package she was carrying to her chest. Her hair was loose again today, tangling in the whispers of late morning wind that whistled quietly through the streets. Her dress was more conservative than normal, a plain dark purple with covered shoulders, and matching shoes. She looked so pretty that for a moment Mercedes quite forgot to reply, before quickly smiling and shaking her head. 

 

“I am fairly certain that it is I who owes you an apology, I was completely distracted,” she admitted, shoving her hands into the pockets of her own coat self consciously. It was the first time she could ever really recall seeing Barbara in town, and she found herself telling her so before she could stop herself, curiosity getting the better of her as always. 

 

“I try to avoid it as much as possible,” Barbara replied with a wry smile, “I have found that people in small towns can be… somewhat gossipy and unkind sometimes, especially to someone like myself. But unfortunately, it is not entirely avoidable. The  _ Revista Musical Chilena _ comes out only once a month, and I usually do my shopping on the same day, so it’s really not so bad I suppose.” She indicated to the package in her hands, squeezing the brown paper wrapping nervously. 

 

“Would you like to have tea with me?” Mercedes found herself asking quite unexpectedly, “And then I could help you with your shopping, of course.” As soon as the invitation was out of her mouth she felt somewhat foolish for trying to force herself into the other woman’s quiet Sunday, when she was probably enjoying no students and no chatter, going about her routine happily. However Barbara blinked and then gave her one of her smiles, the kind of smile that made Mercedes stomach feel odd and uncomfortable in a nice sort of way that she still could not explain or understand. 

 

“If it’s not a burden, that would be lovely,” Barbara accepted, tucking the package into the satchel bag hanging over her shoulder, and linking her arm through Mercedes to let her lead them back through the dusty streets towards the Hosteria, talking as they went. Mercedes had Claudio bring the tea up to her room, and hurriedly cleared the mess of books and notes off of her table when they entered, her cheeks flushing as she tidied them away. 

 

“Sorry it’s such a mess,” she muttered, as Barbara took a seat, those brown eyes taking in every corner of the room with the same kind of curiosity that Mercedes had her living room, lingering on the neatly made bed where Mercedes had carelessly tossed her nightgown that morning, before she swallowed and turned her attention back to the younger woman, smiling warmly. 

 

“Don’t be silly, Mercedes. It’s lovely, I like it.” She leant back in the chair and looked up at Mercedes expectantly, that soft gaze tracing her face calmly and making her feel self conscious. 

 

“It’s really not,” she muttered, taking a seat, “nothing like your lovely house.” 

 

“I will have to give you the  _ full  _ tour sometime, you’ve really only ever seen my living room,” Barbara laughed. 

 

-

“And how was your day, Meche?” her father asked as she pulled out her chair at the table to sit down. Augusta and her brother were out tonight, and Horacio had returned to Santiago for a time, so it was just the two of them for dinner. 

 

“Good,” she replied, “very good.” Mercedes couldn’t hold back the beaming smile that pulled at the corners of her lips as she thought about it, her day; taking tea with Barbara in her room, giggling as Mercedes told her stories about the nosy and gossiping townspeople, the kind of infamous stories of Villa Ruisenor that only an outsider would not know, and Barbara shared her own anecdotes of some of the interesting people from the Conservatory, cooky and artistic musician types, and snooty academics. It felt so easy to talk to her, and even more than that, Mercedes felt an inexplicable desire to share everything with the other woman, and to know everything about her. As though there were no words that could come out of that delicate mouth that she would not find fascinating. Barbara had let her accompany her to the store afterwards, making light and easy small talk as they walked the few aisles, and Mercedes found herself taking note of Barbara’s tastes as each item was added into the basket, found herself wondering what she would be having for tea, what she might eat for breakfast each morning. She insisted on helping to carry everything back to Barbara’s house, trying not to let on as they walked back how much she struggled with the weight of the bags she had taken, wondering how on earth the other woman usually carried all of it on her own. Barbara had not been lying when she said that the kitchen was small, and as she had placed down the paper shopping bags onto the kitchen counter Barbara had turned to thank her, and Mercedes had found herself face to face with her piano teacher in such close proximity that she could smell the camomile tea on her breath, could feel the brush of Barbara’s chest just touching her own each time that she inhaled. She felt as though the butterflies from the garden were inside of her stomach, dancing to a piece of jazz and stirring her insides, until those brown eyes quickly looked away and Barbara shuffled past her back into the living room, saying that Mercedes had better get going, so that she could get home before it got dark. 


	4. Make Her Mine

Dinner with her father should have been pleasant because Mercedes was in an excellent mood, her mind still awash with the memories of her Sunday spent in Barbara's company. It did start out well, however this also meant that she was somewhat distracted, humming a tune under her breath as she ate and getting somewhat sidetracked from what her father was saying, until she realised that he was in fact speaking about the very woman she was thinking about, her name catching Mercedes ears, and she stopped mid mouthful to look up. Ernesto was holding his glass of wine in one hand, talking freely to his daughter over the quiet chatter of the dinner crowd rolling out;

"I mean, if she weren't such a proclaimed artist it would be a little weird but-" he gave a sort of noncommittal shrug, and took another sip, as Mercedes frowned at him and swallowed her food so that she could speak.

"Why weird, papa?" she asked, and he seemed surprise to hear her talk after what had felt like a twenty minute monologue he had been giving the table while his daughter quietly ate and pushed her food around her plate absentmindedly.

"Well, a woman living on her own, and at her age too." The insinuation, the implication, of her father's words sprung an inexplicable and yet strong irritation within Mercedes. More than an irritation in fact, an anger that sat hot in the top of her chest so that she felt herself boiling over, like she had to squeeze her fists so tightly around her cutlery that her nails pressed crescent moons into the palms of her hands in order to try to restrain herself. Because how dare he say something like that about Barbara, who had been nothing but wonderful and kind, and whom he hardly knew well enough to make any sort of judgement about. What was it to him, or to anyone else, that she lived alone.

"Are you saying that if  _I_  said I didn't want to find a husband and get married, that it wouldn't be okay?" she knew she was using a sharp tone from the way her father seemed to blink, taken aback, almost flinching at her words. She watched him tighten the noose of his tie in an uncomfortable habit.

"Mi princesa, you are going to meet a lovely man, marry him, and have beautiful children, and make your papa very happy. Let's not talk about this anymore, okay?" But his dismissal only made her more mad. It was such a thing that he would do, think he could have the last word and then sweep the conversation under the rug and pretend nothing had happened. Today she was not going to let him.

Her conversations with the piano teacher were playing in her head, the things they had discussed, the things she had said. About the unfairness of being born a woman, about the rights afforded only to men, about the fact that things were slowly, slowly changing but it took courage and it required hard conversations to take place. Barbara spoke like this unabashadley, casually sipping her tea and frowning into the steam that rose from her cup. And Mercedes agreed, these were the kinds of notions she had thought cautiously about but never been brave enough to say out loud. There were things about her family, about life in her town, which had never sat quite right with her. Certain invisible rules and guidelines different for girls than for boys, a general particular talent for being overly judgemental about others while your own closet was filled with secrets. There were things people said and did that made her stomach feel uncomfortable in an entirely unpleasant way, and yet she had always been the good and dutiful daughter who did not talk back, had watched silently from the sidelines. The older she grew however, the move that she saw, and the more she came to know and understand her world, the flaws seemed unbreechable. Now she found that Barbara made her want to speak up. What was it that the older woman had said to her, as she discussed the novels she loved, and they spoke about that feeling of wanting to read or to listen to something that did not exist - a story that had not yet been told, but you hungered for. Barbara had watched her from the arm chair in the living room, so large that it seemed to loom around her slender frame and cast shadows across her dress, the reflection of the light of the lamp looking like a moon hanging in the dark depths of her brown eyes. "Be the heroine that you cannot find in your books, if she does not yet exist maybe it is up to you to create her." If she could not say how she really felt to her own father, who  _could_  she say such things to?

"But why?" Mercedes asked, placing her knife and fork down on the edge of her plate in a manner that indicated clearly to her father that this was a serious conversation now and not flippant dinner small talk, "What if I don't want that for my life? Why do  _I_  have to do that, get married and settle down and have children, just because I am a woman? But if Horacio wants to go gallivanting across the country, sleeping with whomever he likes, it's okay?" She watched the mild irritation on her father's face morph into anger, setting his glass down so hard that the wine in the bottom sloshed up the side, and a few drops of crimson stained the white table cloth dramatically.

"Mercedes Moller, what has gotten into you? Where has this attitude come from?" he asked defensively, avoiding her questions because they both knew the obvious answers. That was life. That was Chile, that was this town, and this family who cared too much about reputation and not enough about happiness, she thought crossly to herself, standing up abruptly so that her chair scraped on the floor as the backs of her knees pushed it over the floorboards, her hands resting flat on the table.

"You mean being smart enough to think for myself, and question the things that the silly people of this town just accept as unchangeable facts?" she felt the familiar flicker of her quick temper then, and subdued herself, exhaling heavily, "I think that I am full Papa. Enjoy the rest of your dinner." And with that she left him to the rest of his tea alone, not stomping back up the stairs as she would have only months ago, but walking briskly with her head held high.

-

When she approached Barbara's house the next day, early for her lesson as was now her routine, the garden was silent. No music escaped the old house, no notes drifted through the flower beds. Perhaps the afternoon already felt subdued by the clouds hanging over head, drifting across the sun to throw a mountainous shadow across the landscape. There were no butterflies today dancing amongst the flowers, there were no bees humming along pleasantly to a light and playful tune. A breeze blew through the long grass, tangled through the leaves of the overhanging branches above like an insidious whisper in a crowd, and tickled at the nape of Mercedes neck as she walked up the steps uncertainty. It would seem almost as though the day, the weather, reflected her mood - still somewhat sour from her discussion with her father the night before, although she had tried to push that nagging irritation down on the walk there, cheering herself up with the reminder of soon being back in Barbara's presence, looking forward to the sound of her playing to brighten her day.

She sat down heavily onto the patio, leaning her head against the wooden pole beside her and letting out a sigh. She could hardly go inside, but the silence felt oddly disconcerting, the lack of noise loud in her ears when she was so used to the space filled with music, or at least the dulcet tones of Barbara's voice.

"Mercedes?" For just a moment she thought she had imagined it, and that she had thought so hard she had been able to conjure the memory of it in her mind so realistically it was as if it was being spoken, the delightful way that Barbara said her name.

"You're early, or am I late? I am so sorry if I am late, I was sure it wasn't for another hour, but I can be hopeless with these sorts of things." Mercedes looked up, and blinked both in surprise and delight to see Barbara walking down the garden path towards her. She was wearing a pair of light brown slacks, and a white button up shirt, her dark hair tied back loosely in a ponytail to keep it at bay in the breeze that every so often picked up again and sent Mercedes curls flying. Mercedes sat grinning at her as she approached, until Barbara reached the top step and she quickly scrambled to her feet, letting Barbara place her hands on her shoulders, and rub the tops of her arms where her skin crawled with goosebumps from the cool air, and lean in to place a greeting kiss against her cheek. Today her lips were cold and chapped. When she pulled back, happy to see Mercedes but inquisitive, Mercedes finally remembered her words and blushed, stumbling over her tongue as she tried to respond.

"Oh, no, you're not late! I'm early. I'm always early though. At first it wasn't on purpose, but now sometimes it is. Because I like listening to you. When you play before our lessons. You play so beautifully. Why were you in the woods?" She had only meant to say the first part, but Barbara was still standing close in front of her, holding onto her, hands warm against the skin of Mercedes arms, her breath smelling again like camomile tea just as it had the night before in the kitchen, in that moment they had had that Mercedes did not know how to make sense of, only that she had thought of it many times since, and for some ridiculous and inexplicable reason Mercedes now found herself thinking that she would very much like to kiss her, and to taste the tea on her lips, to warm them with her own, and so she had no choice but to keep her mouth busy with spilling embarrassing secrets so as to stop herself from pushing up onto the tips of her toes and pressing it to Barbara's own. Barbara took her nervous rambling in her stride as always, smiling gently as she stepped back out of Mercedes' space and lead her towards the front door.

"I was just... taking a walk. To clear my head," she replied somewhat mysteriously as she unlocked it, and let them inside, "You're not wearing a coat today Mercedes, aren't you cold?"

"Oh. I suppose I forgot," Mercedes stammered, following Barbara into the small front hall and watching her untie her boots, lithe fingers making quick work of the knots. She couldn't help but think how pretty she looked, and how odd it was that she looked so pretty in an outfit... so masculine, but that somehow her figure in the loose white blouse, the wisps of hair that escaped her ponytail, the pink of her cheeks, all so effeminate that they softened the hard lines of her pants. She was still grappling with the sudden and inexpiable urge she had had to kiss her, that she didn't notice the way that Barbara paused after stepping out of her shoes and looked her up and down thoughtfully, eyes raking over the folds of her dress, running over her features affectionately, before she looked away.

"How about you make us a cup of tea, and I'll play you something to warm up," Barbara offered, striding towards the piano, the offer called over her shoulder as she went. Mercedes blinked and nodded hastily, moving through the living room towards the kitchen entrance, watching out of the corner of her eye as the piano teacher took a seat, and let loose the soft waves of her hair so that they settled around her shoulders.

As she pottered around in the cupboards, pulling out the tea bags and putting on the kettle, Mercedes heard Barbara's fingers run across the keys delicately, from one end of the piano to the other, the deepest note like rumbling thunder up into the highest key like a twinkling chime. There was a beat, the shuffling of sheet music, and then she began to play, and Mercedes closed her eyes and leant against the kitchen bench so that she could listen, in the safe shadows of the dark cramped kitchen, the scent of brewing tea mingling with the dusty, sweet smell that the house always had. The song was familiar, something she had maybe heard on the radio before, something American. If she concentrated hard enough she could just remember scattered parts of the lyrics, and she found herself singing them softly beneath her breath.

" _Is it so wrong to long for, someone who's so supreme? I'm not the one she,_ " she stumbled uncertainty on the word, and hummed across it instead, " _but is it a sin if I dream? I sigh for her and her caress. Am I but a voice in the wilderness. Oh heaven above me, tell her to love me. Make her mine_." She didn't realise how her voice had risen until the last note faded out, and she heard Barbara giggle from the other room.

"Mercedes, I think that you singing in English is probably my favourite sound ever now," she heard Barbara call out, and she felt heat rise in her cheeks. 


	5. Todo Lo Que Necesita Fue La Lluvia

Mercedes tried to tell herself that it was the tea, just the scorching tea that made her cheeks burn, that curled hot in the pit of her stomach, as she sat across from Barbara in the living room. But tea didn’t make your heart race like hers was racing now, unable to meet that sweet gaze with the other woman’s words still playing in her head. Words that surely had been a flippant and teasing comment, so why had they affected her so? Made her clumsy as she brought in their drinks and almost spilled both the cups three times, made her shy and quiet, her mouth too dry to speak. Or maybe it was that she didn’t trust her tongue not to say something stupid, let some of the confusing thoughts tumbling through her head spill out of her mouth carelessly. Barbara blew gently across the surface of her drink to try to cool it before taking a sip and yet still winced slightly as the liquid met her tongue, placing the cup down on the table beside her for a moment and leaning back into her chair. A loose wave of her hair had slipped beneath the collar of her shirt, the dark tendril disappearing under the contrastly sharp white material just above her collarbone, and Mercedes wanted to lean across and brush it back.

 

“You know, that is the first time I have played for someone in… well, I think four years now,” Barbara confessed, hands curling around the ends of the chair arms as she watched Mercedes, meeting her gaze when the younger woman looked up in surprise so that she could connect with the shifting greens and blues of her eyes, observe the grey undertone they had on that dark, overcast afternoon. 

 

“Really?” Mercedes asked, letting her cup rest on her leg as she focused all of her attention on Barbara, “Why not? I heard that… well, I hope you don’t think I’m a gossip or anything, but, the family that recommended you said you had been asked to play in the new  Santiago Philharmonic Orchestra, but that you said no?” She bit her bottom lip uncertainty, half expecting Barbara to be mad at her, perhaps for being so nosy or for listening to hearsay about her, but she only smiled warmly and looked across towards her piano in the corner, eyes tracing it’s sturdy but elegant shape backlit by the subdued glow through the curtains. 

 

“Ah, well that is true. It would have been an honor, of course, I’m certainly not so snobby as to think I am above that. It’s just that, well, I haven’t played publicly since my parents died.” Her beautiful brown eyes were filled again for a moment with the melancholy that Mercedes had seen on those days when the house had spilled exquisitely sad music into it’s gardens. To see her like that dispelled all other thoughts from Mercedes’ mind, other than a desperate need to make Barbara smile again. She wanted to ask, wanted to know so badly what had happened. She wished that she could be the confidant of all of Barbara’s secrets, pains and wishes, to be the one to listen patiently to anything she had to say. To be the one to wipe the tears from her cheeks. But she did not feel she had the right to ask, to pry, nor perhaps was it something that the piano teacher wanted to discuss. Instead she leant across the gap to place her hand comfortingly on Barbara’s knee, pulling her attention back, so that Barbara’s eyes sought out hers again in the dulled light through the curtains. The piano teacher offered her a weary smile, placing her own on top of Mercedes, skin still carrying heat transferred from the side of her tea cup now pressing to the back of Mercedes fingers. For a second her breath caught in her throat, the tenderness of Barbara’s touch consuming her. She touched her with an affectionate warmth that Mercedes wished she could wrap herself in, that she felt would comfort and protect her. She imagined what it would be like to be held by her like that, to feel her slender arms envelop her waist, the softness of Barbara’s cheek brushing her own, and to hold her back, to clutch at the crisp material of her shirt so as to hold her tightly against herself, as though she could show with the strength of her embrace how much she cared, could take with her some of that sadness as they pulled apart again. She felt Barbara’s fingers brush over the back of her hand, so softly that it made her shiver as they traced a wandering pattern over her skin. Mercedes licked her lips, exhaling heavily.

 

“Thank you,” she whispered. The words broached the quiet, and Barbara’s fingers paused at the base of her wrist, elegant even when playful, poised as though she was about to play a piece on the piano. 

 

“For what?” she asked just as softly, and listened as the wind whistled through the roof and the cracks and crevices of the house. What had Mercedes meant to say thank you for? She was sure, but she wasn’t. There were a thousand things to thank Barbara for. Thank you for being the most patient and inspiring teacher that anyone could hope to find, thank for being a friend, thank you for being a reason to smile every morning, thank you for the thoughtful advice, thank you for making her think, for changing her perspective a little, for helping her to grow up and to mature into the woman she felt that she was becoming - thank you for existing, if it was possible to thank someone for such a thing. Because there were moments such as now when she felt so thankful for that, in such an intense sort of way that it almost scared her. 

 

“Thank you for trusting me to be the first person that you played to again,” she answered instead. The smile which this earnt her was worth its weight in gold, warmer than a summer sun on that cold and miserable day, the kind of smile that seemed to fill Mercedes chest with lightness and elation. 

 

“Well, you are different Mercedes. With you, I feel safe.”

 

-

 

They were halfway through their lesson when the first drops began to fall. Barbara had the window slightly open, and even before it began to rain Mercedes could smell that familiar and indescribable scent carried inside on the cold breeze that brushed her arms. The smell of coming rain, fresh and sweet, which always filled her stomach with an excited sort of anticipation, as though she were again a child waiting to be able to pull on her gum boots and run through the puddles, and not a sensible adult who should be bemoaning the bad weather and its inconvenience. She was running through the next line of music slowly, walking her fingers over the notes to learn the path her hands would take whilst Barbara stood behind her watching over her shoulder, when the sound caught her ear of a drop hitting the glass pane. She glanced out to watch them begin to fall onto the garden, hitting the leaves and the petals with force, steadily growing faster and heavier, until the sound of rain on the roof began to fill the living room, and she felt Barbara’s arms wrap around her from behind. 

 

“I love the sound of rain,” she whispered excitedly, words warm against Mercedes’ ear as she pulled her back against her front and wrapped Mercedes in her warmth. The younger woman smiled, closing her eyes and leaning her head back against Barbara’s shoulder. It was as she imagined, but better, to be held by Barbara so gently whilst the cacophonous sound of rain filled the house. The tenderness with which her hands sat against the collar of Mercedes dress, fingertips just brushing her skin. Barbara’s scent surrounding her, sweet and soft and familiar now. After a moment the arms withdrew, Barbara laughing awkwardly as she walked around to the other side of the piano and leant back against it. Mercedes could see her shake her head, her eyes turned away, as though taking a moment to compose herself before she looked back again with a somewhat unconvincing smile.

 

“You looked cold, but I think perhaps I should just get you a jacket,” she tried to make light of the situation, her voice giving her away, somewhat breathless. Mercedes bit her lip, watching Barbara exhale heavily and walk briskly into the front hall and up the stairs, her footsteps dulled by the rain, leaving Mercedes alone on the piano stool to watch the way it fell onto the plants, splashed onto the ground, turning all the dirt to mud and beading the flowers like small diamonds being dropped onto their brightly coloured petals. Soon Barbara returned with a warm cardigan, insisting on placing it over Mercedes’ shoulders before they continued, taking a seat again beside her on the stool. The snuggly knit smelt like Barbara, and maybe that was half of its comfort.

 

“Hopefully the sound of the storm overpowers my terrible playing,” Mercedes joked, and was pleased to make Barbara really laugh this time, mirth twinkling in her eyes as she shook her head reproachfully and turned the page. 

 

“You’re playing is lovely Mercedes.”

 

“Well now I know you’re just being nice because you like me, because that is not true at  _ all _ .” Barbara blinked nervously and then smiled, bumping her shoulder against Mercedes’ own and pointing to the page. They played on, but soon the allocated lesson time came and went, and the rain did not lessen, if anything it grew only heavier, the rumble of thunder gurgling low in the distance slowing getting louder. Mercedes eyed the clock, and looked back to Barbara uncertainty. She wanted desperately for the older woman to make up one of her excuses, to boil the kettle again for tea, and allow her to stay longer. But she knew she had been there long enough, had occupied such a large portion of Barbara’s day that surely she was sick of her by now. She watched her sigh, as she turned on the piano stool to better face her, the piano teacher fiddling nervously with her hands in her lap. 

 

“Mercedes, I cannot let you go out in this rain, but I know it is getting dark soon and it doesn’t look to be stopping any time soon. Would you please stay the night? You can call your father to let him know, I just cannot allow you to walk home in this storm, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself should anything happen to you.” 

 

It was not at all what Mercedes had been expecting, entirely the opposite, and she could not help the way her mouth curled up into a smile, nor how she leant forward and threw her arms around Barbara to hug her. 

 

“Of course,” she muttered against her shoulder, and hoped the poor lighting hid the redness of her cheeks as she pulled away, “I mean, if it isn’t an inconvenience?” Barbara was already shaking her head and laughing. 

  
“No, no, it’s settled. You will stay. I will help you call the hosteria, and then I will make us some dinner, how does that sound?”   
  
“That sounds perfect.”


	6. Tu Voz

Mercedes looked up from her book and smiled shyly as Barbara placed a second blanket around her shoulders tenderly, trying not to disturb her as she did so, carefully tucking the soft material around her arms. As she leant over Mercedes a loose piece of hair slipped from her shoulder and fell down to brush against the younger woman’s forehead, tickling just above her brow. Her fingers brushed Mercedes shoulders and made her shiver as Barbara withdrew.

 

“Sorry that the house is so drafty,” she whispered when she realised she had caught Mercedes attention, the younger woman resurfacing from the world of her novel with wide eyes that soaked in the warm light of the lamp and watched her softly. 

 

“Don’t be silly,” Mercedes replied, setting her book down in her lap and letting it fall closed on the bookmark, “I am just thankful to you for letting me stay. It sounds like it is only getting worse out there.” As if to agree, the sky outside rumbled ominously as she watched Barbara sit down in the chair across from her, a blanket wrapped around her own shoulders as well, the material of her nightgown creasing as she tucked her legs beneath herself and the hem rose up just over her knees, revealing the goosebumps crawling across her skin. She looked so casually beautiful, in such an elegant and effortless sort of way, as she leant her head against the side of the armchair, hair tumbling over the blanket she was wrapped in. Those dark brown eyes tonight carried an intensity that made Mercedes stomach twist and drop in such a pleasant but odd sort of way when she felt their gaze on her, somewhat like the feeling when her brothers had pushed her on a swing as a child, that thrill and fear entangled as she reached the highest point and began to fall back down towards the ground. To have all of Barbara’s attention always felt somehow to be a gift, and yet tonight to have her look at her so intently made Mercedes feel nervous, as though perhaps she did not realise she had a clove caught in her teeth, or sauce smeared on her cheek. As though surely something must be out of place, for what other reason could there be for Barbara to be looking at her like  _ that _ . 

 

She had noticed the slightly altered look that the piano teacher was giving her as she had called her father. The cold receiver pressed to her ear, she had gritted her teeth to hear him say how he hoped she had forgotten their silly tiff the night before, and looked across the room to try to distract herself when she noticed Barbara standing by the piano, those dark brown eyes watching her as Mercedes leant against the wall, drawing slowly up length of her extended leg and the folds of her dress where Mercedes was playing with a loose thread. Barbara had blinked as she realised Mercedes had caught her staring and quickly looked away, pretending to shuffle some sheet music hastily. Mercedes wanted to tell her she didn’t mind, but her father rambled on in her ear, fretting and worrying about her with the storm, asking her to thank Barbara for letting her stay, and she watched silently as the older woman disappeared into the kitchen to begin to prepare the food, left to make sounds of agreement as her father went on, not listening to a word that he said as she let the sounds of the storm drown out his voice and thought of those chocolate eyes. 

 

Barbara had watched her cautiously over dinner, making light small talk as they ate at her small dining table, knees bumping beneath every time they shifted. Usually they would be dissecting themes like the construction of music vs the construction of narrative, not arguing over the quality of Barbara’s cooking (which she claimed was atrocious, and Mercedes firmly advised was the best Cazuela she had ever eaten). Somehow the easy topic felt pleasant to discuss, their banter making Mercedes giggle giddily, the teasing back and forth and relentless compliments just towing some invisible line. After dinner she had insisted on helping to clean up, the least she could do for imposing, and had to admit sheepishly that it was in fact her first time washing up, enjoying the way that Barbara laughed so loudly it echoed in the tight kitchen over the sound of the rain. 

 

She found however that she quite enjoyed it. Though perhaps that was not the activity itself, but the company. The feel of Barbara’s shoulder bumping hers in the small space, their elbows clashing as they reached across each other, hands grazing in the soapy water, at first by accident and then perhaps somewhat on purpose. For the hours that had passed since, that feeling, that memory, of wanting to kiss Barbara as they stood on the patio, was lingering in the back of her mind, at first having terrified her, now making her nervous but… somewhat curious. As though it was a piece of music she wanted to try to play, a book cover that had caught her attention and had her pondering what words lay beneath, what story waited to be read. She had felt a tap on her nose, pulled from the surging and confusing swell of thoughts by Barbara teasingly leaving soap bubbles on the end of her nose and making her laugh as she blew them off. “ _ Don’t get too lost in there, pequeñita _ .” The moment the words were out of her mouth Barbara had flushed, and turned away to reach for the dish towel in order to dry the plates, but the soft familiarity of the way she had said it had filled Mercedes with a light-heartedness that left her grinning as she carefully helped put the pots and pans away. Why was it that when her family called her Mechita they made her feel like a petulant child again, but when Barbara called her pequeñita she felt only enamoured by the show of affection.

 

Barbara had left Mercedes with a blanket and a selection of books when she had gone upstairs to get changed, the younger woman trying her best to select between the titles, and not to think of the music teacher upstairs only meters away removing the crinkled button up shirt. Suffice to say, she had been entirely distracted until she heard feet padding softly barefoot down the staircase, and in a panic grabbed the book closest to her hand and thrown herself down onto the couch, trying to appear as though she had been there the whole time, absorbed in the novel, and not imagining Barbara tugging the light brown pants down her thighs, pooling at her ankles, dimmed light across her skin. 

 

Now her selected book was clasped between her warm, sweating palms, fingers tracing the letting on the spine as she met Barbara’s gaze and wondered for a moment if it was all in her head. What would happen, if she let the book slide onto the cushion beside her, if she rose to her feet and took the short two steps to reach the armchair, if she gripped the upholstery either side of Barbara’s head and leant down to press her lips to the other woman’s own. She had never kissed anyone before, maybe that was why she was curious. Or perhaps it was just Barbara, surely no-one could be in the presence of this woman and not wonder how her mouth felt pressed to your own. Her enigmatic nature, the warm sensuality to her touch, enough to make anyone’s heart race. And yet Mercedes knew, deep down, that wasn’t quite true, but an excuse to avoid the fact that she had found herself irrevocably and unavoidably enchanted, and she didn’t quite know why or how to handle it. 

 

“What did you end up reading?” Barbara asked, voice small beneath the loud overture of the storm that pressed in on them in the little house. Mercedes opened her mouth to speak, and then realised that she couldn’t quite recall, having to cast her gaze down to the novel to read the title on the cover in order to respond. 

 

“Idylle Saphique,” she replied quickly, reading the name out clumsily and cursing her own pronunciation as soon as it had left her lips. Those few french lessons in high school had not paid off well, she thought to herself with a frown. When she looked back up Barbara was looking at her with a perplexing mix of amusement and curiosity. 

 

“You can read in french?” Barbara asked her, pursing her lips and watching the way that Mercedes face coloured, the soft crimson brushing up her cheek bones as she ducked her head, and then let out a heavy breath. 

 

“Not very well, apparently,” she replied sheepishly. Barbara carefully got up from her chair, walking over to sit beside Mercedes on the lounge and gently plucking the book from her hands, opening it to the first page and reading the opening sentence in perfect french. Mercedes watched mesmerised, and tried not to focus on Barbara’s tongue curling around the foreign words, or how close she was sitting, the side of their thighs pressed against each other, her face close as she turned her head. 

 

“You will have to practice, it’s an excellent novel. I will lend it to you whenever you want, it isn’t easy to find a copy.” 

 

“What’s it about?” Mercedes asked. She watched Barbara open her mouth, pause, and bite her lip. It was so very unlike her not to simply speak without thinking, for her to hold back made Mercedes only more curious. After a moment Barbara gave her a mysterious smile, eyes looking across the room unable to meet her gaze as she replied. 

 

“The novel is set in the spring of 1899 in Paris. I suppose it is….  a chronicle of an affair of the author, who was a very interesting woman.” Despite her fascination with the book, and with Barbara’s coyness over it’s plot, Mercedes found herself unable to hold in the yawn that escaped her mouth, causing her eyes to water. Barbara laughed, getting up, the cold night air rushing to fill the space against Mercedes leg where she had just been pressed, as if to remind her of the absence. 

 

“I left a spare nightgown for you upstairs, if you want to change,” Barbara told her gently, “And you can take my bed, I will make up the the lounge.” She had the book still held in her hands, and now pressed it to her chest as she gazed down at Mercedes, watching the way her brow furrowed in the same manner it always did when the younger woman was about to disagree.

 

“Barbara, don’t be silly, I’m not going to make you sleep on your lounge in your own house. Besides which,” she took a breath quite dramatically, and leant forward, “never tell anyone else that I told you but… storms scare me a little.” She grinned when this elicited a small laugh, Barbara extending a hand to help her back to her feet, grinning as she pulled her up. 

 

“I must warn you that I steal the blankets.” Mercedes stumbled forward, and pulled herself back before she ran into Barbara’s front, swallowing and pushing down the thoughts that the sentence evoked, forcing herself instead to smile back and reply, not quite as confidently as she had wanted to,and almost more of a soft request than a teasing joke as it passed her nervous lips;

  
“Oh, I dare you to try.”

 

-

 

She was already tucked up in the sheets, carefully lying to the very side of the bed, such that she would have fallen off if it did not abut the wall, when she heard Barbara gently knock on the door. 

 

“Come in!” she called out, trying to raise her voice high enough to be heard above the storm and finding that it came out in somewhat of a squeak. She watched the door slowly open, brown eyes and a soft smile appearing in the dim lamp light as Barbara entered quietly. The rain seemed to have grown heavier, thunderous and perhaps louder on the second floor than it had been in the living room below. It felt like she could hear every drop on the roof above, sounding together all at once, with the wind in the trees, and the thunder in the distance, like a giant orchestra all coming together. Mercedes closed her eyes for a moment as Barbara let blanket slip from her shoulders, eyelids closing just as she saw the constellation of freckles that had caught her attention that first day in the doorway, beneath the strap of the nightgown, dark spots against the soft caramel of Barbara’s skin. She held the image in her mind as she felt Barbara drape the blanket across the bed for extra warmth, as she listened to her footsteps on the floor boards, the sound of the light switched off, the rustle of the blankets as she lifted the corner, cool air rushing in against Mercedes skin, the bedshifting beneath her as Barbara climbed in. When she opened her eyes again the other woman was lying on her back on the other side of the bed, what felt like a metre of space between them for a bed of such a small size, staring up at the ceiling. She wanted to reach out, to ease her cold hands with the warmth of Barbara’s skin, the comfort of her touch as the storm sounded overhead. Instead she turned onto her back as well, so that they were both tracing the dark lines of the ceiling with their eyes in the heavy silence of the room. For all her tiredness, the length of the day, for the yawn that had passed her lips not minutes earlier, Mercedes found herself not the least bit sleepy now. She had never felt more awake, as though every part of her body was coursing with nervous energy that tingled in the tips of her fingers and toes. She heard a shaky breath pass Barbara’s lips, and with her eyes still facing up, imaging the night sky behind the heavy rain, she whispered;

 

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

 

She felt Barbara shift beside her, and tilted her own head to peek a glance, finding the other woman now on her side facing Mercedes, smiling at her in the dark. 

 

“What?” she asked.

 

“It’s a game I used to play with Elsa. Tell me something I don’t know.”

 

They used to place this on summer afternoons at the river, when Augusta wasn’t with them (a rare occasion here and there), when Elsa would dip her toes in the cold water, skirt hoisted up around her waist daintily, and Mercedes was lying on the grass of the bank, an open book pressed to her chest. “Tell me something I don’t know.” A teasing request, that became their way of sharing silly secrets and wasting time on a hot day. When she asked it of Barbara however, she hoped somewhat that she would share something deeper. She wanted to know, there in the safety of the dark, in the tension filled room, under the cover of the storm, all of the other woman’s darkest secrets, the thoughts behind those melancholy eyes, the untold ponderings of her mind. After a moment Barbara licked her lips. 

 

“Sometimes I think that I am to blame for my parents deaths.”

 

Mercedes swallowed the silence and turned quickly onto her side as well, to face Barbara fully, reaching out in the dark to touch her cheek. 

 

“Barbara, how could you think that?”

 

“Do you get to ask questions of the other persons confessions in this game?” Barbara asked softly, and with a resigned scowl that she hoped the other woman could not see Mercedes shook her head. 

 

“No.”   
  
“Okay, so, tell me something I don’t know.”

 

“Sometimes I forget what my mother’s face looked like, and I pull out old photos to try to remember, and then I wonder if I ever actually remembered, or if I just remember the photographs. I’ll never know the way that she frowned when I threw a tantrum, or rolled her eyes at Horacio for asking silly questions, all I will ever know is the smile she gave a camera.”

 

“Ay, Mercedes.” The sympathetic sigh brushed Mercedes fingers, where they still hovered against Barbara’s cheek, unwilling to withdraw from the warmth of her skin or the familiarity of the touch in the dark. As thought perhaps as long as neither of them acknowledged the intimacy of the gesture, it could stay like that, another secret in the dark. 

 

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Mercedes requested, hoping Barbara couldn’t read the wanting cantor of her words, the hope they carried of something she knew did not exist, some admittance or hint that Mercedes meant something to her.  _ Something _ , like something unnamable but special, like the kind of something that stirred in her own chest when Barbara held her hand momentarily as she moved it across the piano. 

 

“Sometimes I wonder if-” but the words died on Barbara’s lips when they heard a crack so loud above them that it sounded for a moment as though the sky itself had been broken open, violently torn asunder, the lightening for a moment filling the room through the small window on the other side, flooding their dark sanctuary with such brightness it was blinding, and then disappeared just as quickly, leaving the sky rumbling and groaning in its wake, and Mercedes buried in Barbara’s arms, clinging to her body beneath the blankets, face buried in her neck. She heard Barbara whisper soothingly against her ear, running her hands gently over Mercedes hair and wrapping her arms around the shaking woman to hold her against her. 

 

“Hey, it’s okay Mercedes, it’s okay.” Mercedes felt the soft press of Barbara’s lips against the top of her head, and felt her heart begin to race all over again, burying herself further into the crook of her neck, so that her own mouth just brushed against Barbara’s collar bone, and she held back the urge to place a kiss there.

 

“Can you sing me something?” she asked coyly, trying to distract herself, to not get lost in the idea of trailing kisses over the other woman’s skin, of seeking out her constellation of freckles and tracing their shape. The heat that this produced within her was enough to dispel the cold of the storm outside, to make her body flush beneath the thin blankets, and burn everywhere that she was pressed against Barbara. She felt Barbara shiver slightly as her words brushed over her skin, and heard her swallow and hum thoughtfully for a moment. 

 

“Okay, how about we work on your french?” she teased, to try to take Mercedes mind off of the storm, “ _ Des yeux qui font baisser les miens, Un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche, Voilà le portrait sans retouches, De l'homme auquel j'appartiens _ .”

 


	7. Danza

Mercedes first thought was that the rain had stopped. It occurred to her before she had even opened her eyes, slowly returning to consciousness, still heavy and warm from slumber. The constant soundtrack from the night had faded out, and now all that remained was a faint but constant drip somewhere above (as the water having amassed from over night made its way back to the earth), and the soft breathing of the woman beside her. Her second thought was that she was in Barbara’s bed, and not only that but curled against the curve of the other woman’s back, arm wrapped around her waist, and her mouth pressed to Barbara’s shoulder blade. She pursed her lips, and they gently grazed Barbara’s skin just above where the back of her nightgown met the twisted strap. Mercedes felt her stirr for a moment in her arms, murmuring something beneath her breath, before clutching at Mercedes hand where it was pressed to the bottom of her rib cage and entangling their fingers. 

 

Mercedes swallowed, allowing herself one more moment to soak in the delicious warmth of the bed, and of Barbara, before she knew she would have to get up, to extricate herself from her embrace which she would likely never feel again like this. For when again would she ever have an excuse to stay at Barbara’s house, to share her bed, to be held by her gently as Barbara had held her last night. Terrified as she was she had also never been so grateful for a storm, her secret fear having allowed her this small sliver of indescribable happiness. 

 

As she lay she recalled her turbulent dreams from the night, floating back through her mind in fragmented pieces that stirred her softly beating heart. Dreams in which Barbara was whispering to her in french, long exotic frases that she could not understand, Barbara’s tongue twisting around each syllable and tracing the soft shape of the words against Mercedes’ navel. Dreams in which they hid beneath the blankets, sheets propped up like a tent as the sound of the rain surrounded them, and Barbara traced her face in the soft glow of candle light that seemed to appear from nowhere in particular, and let her fingertips wander down the line of her neck, following the dip of her clavicle, skating across the silky material of her borrowed nightgown and making Mercedes shiver. 

 

She opened her eyes, blinking into the bright light starting to spill through the window across the room, trying to shake the images from her head, to dispel the heat that they create in her cheeks, in her chest, in between her thighs. She rolled onto her back, distancing herself from Barbara, releasing her hold around her waist but unable to disentangle their fingers, hands still held awkwardly between them as she stared up at the ceiling. Her breath staggered as she exhaled heavily, and traced the lines of the roof as she had attempted to do in the dark the night before, counting the beams as a distraction, but unable to entirely forget with Barbara’s hand squeezing hers softly still. She frowned and sat up, carding her free hand through her hair as the blankets slid down and pooled at her waist, letting the cool morning air brush against her exposed arms, and the tops of her shoulders. Beside her Barbara groaned, finally releasing her grip on Mercedes hand as she curled in tighter to the sheets, tangled waves of dark hair splayed across her pillow and her face scrunched in a frown.

 

“Good morning,” Mercedes whispered, although sure that Barbara could not hear her, slipping her legs out from under the covers as well so that she could carefully climb over the slumbering woman, and bare feet flinching as they met the floorboards. How odd to say good morning for once instead of good afternoon or good night, though she liked the sound of it, soft sleepy good mornings carried on warm morning breath, and the thought of these returned to her by the piano teacher left a warm, uncertain longing in her chest. She tugged her twisted and creased nightgown back down to sit as it should around her knees, and not halfway up her thighs, and looked about to see if she could spot a towel so that she could take a shower. She needed to feel the cold water on her face, splashing down her body, to wash away the feelings she was struggling to fight. 

 

“Towels are in the cupboard,” a raspy but teasing voice whispered behind her, and she glanced across to meet the sleepy dark chocolate eyes watching her tiredly from the bed, dry lips curling up at the corners as Barbara smiled softly and then let her eyelids fall closed again. The morning light falling across her face coloured her skin in warm golden-orange tones, and she looked delightfully peaceful wrapped up in the blankets and sheets, only her head visible beneath the folds until she stretched out her leg and her foot protruded out of the bottom, her calf meeting the cool air as she elongated it with a soft groan. Mercedes had to pull her gaze away, smiling to herself foolishly as she opened the cupboard door and plucked out a towel from a pile at the bottom, hugging the lined to her chest. She knew that she shouldn’t, but could not help feeling elated to begin her day in Barbara’s company, to get this small and rare peek into the intimacies of her morning, humming to herself beneath her breath as she wandered into the bathroom and hung her towel over the hook on the back of the door. The words escape her, but she knew the tune, the romantic swell and fall of  _ La Vie En Rose _ vibrating against her lips as the water began to fall. 

 

-

 

“Tea is for evenings and afternoons, something warm to fill your stomach, but for mornings you need coffee,” Barbara advised her as she pulled cups out of a high cupboard that she knew Mercedes would not be able to reach, glancing over her shoulder and biting back a smile. Mercedes stood in the entrance to the kitchen, leaning against the archway, the morning light streaming into the lounge room behind her catching in the soft curls of her hair, today untamed and loose around her shoulders. She was wearing one of Barbara’s dresses, a loan, but as the piano teacher took in again the way the flowing yellow material danced around Mercedes legs as she rocked back on the heels of her feet, she had already decided that it would be a crime to take it back when it looked so becoming on her. She tried not to recall stealing a glance as Mercedes had slipped it on, turning back for a moment from the bathroom door to see the lemon fabric sliding down her slender arms, for a moment Mercedes lacy white bra, her white cotton underpants and the soft skin of her stomach visible before the dress descended down to cover them. 

 

“You are keeping the dress,” she found herself saying as she turned back, the words coming out before she could stop them as she reached for the coffee jar. She was thankful though that was all she had said, and not some of the tangled, nervous thoughts about Mercedes body that made her cheeks warm just to think about. Behind her she heard Mercedes laugh. 

 

“I’m not going to keep your dress!” she protested, watching Barbara spoon heaped sugar into both cups, before throwing a rueful smile back towards her, the depths of her brown eyes this morning darker than the coffee swirling in both their cups and just as rich, making a show of looking down to Mercedes bare feet and slowly raking back up her body until she met her eyes again, and shook her head.

 

“It looks far better on you than it ever did on me, you look beautiful in yellow Mercedes. Having said that, you look beautiful in any colour.” She watched Mercedes flush and blunder awkwardly for a response, restraining herself from teasing the younger woman further and instead turning back to stir their drinks.

 

“Would you like to take them in the garden? We don’t have to, but it’s a lovely morning.” She heard Mercedes let out a heavy sigh of relief. 

 

“Yes, I think that would be lovely.”

 

They walked slowly down the patio steps, each tenderly cradling their cup in their hands, and along a short winding path to the side of the house where there was a small wooden bench beneath the shifting shade of a Mesquite Tree. Mercedes sat down on the edge and looked around curiously, eyes raking over the low bushes and the rambling patches of cerastium flowers, small white bursts of petals almost like stars or snoke flakes littered throughout the greenery. Barbara’s garden always felt so peaceful, but here more than ever Mercedes felt so safe and so calm. The dappled sunlight through the branches played across her skin as Barbara sat next to her, gently sipping at her coffee and stretching out her legs, reveling in the warmth of the rising sun against her calves.    
  
“Do you begin every morning like this?” Mercedes asked, turning back to face her. She watched Barbara smile over the rim of her cup, lowering it into her lap and drumming her fingernails against the china thoughtfully. 

  
“With coffee, yes, always. In the garden? Not so much I suppose. It’s been a summer or two since I last just sat here and let the morning wash over me. I think that I should do it more often. And with such good company too,” she reached cross and gently nudged Mercedes ankle with the tip of her shoe. The way that Mercedes beamed at this seemed to make the already radiant sun shine even brighter. She had the ability to make the morning seem enjoyable, when these were usually Barbara’s least favourite time of day. 

 

“I would love that,” Mercedes replied softly into her cup, the rippling brown liquid of her coffee reflecting against the bright ocean green of her eyes as they widened nervously, “In your garden, I mean. As in, to have a garden like this where I could start my mornings, not literally in your gardens, at your house.” Maybe it was the memory of her dreams again playing through her mind, or just embarrassment at her awkwardness and inability to speak this morning in front of Barbara, but she felt herself blushing and turned away towards the gardens, her chest tight as she inhaled. Why was there a thought in the back of her mind humming pleasantly that it would be nice, to start her mornings  _ just _ like this, with Barbara in her garden sipping coffee in the sun, and to wake up  _ just  _ like they had that morning too. She wondered if Barbara remembered now how they had fallen asleep, Mercedes head pressed to her chest where she could hear the fast thrumming sound of Barbara’s heart beat over the storm, or how they had woken up, with Mercedes arms wrapped around her despite the storm having passed, still tangled limbs and intimate warmth. She wondered if the memory of this had crossed Barbara’s mind at all, or how it made her feel, if anything at all. Perhaps it was just a meaningless detail to the other woman, nothing of any consequence, or perhaps she thought it somewhat odd but did not want to say something. Mercedes chewed the inside of her cheek and inhaled the aroma of her drink, bitter and rich, overpowering the scent of the flowers as it filled her senses. 

 

“Tell me something I don’t know.” She glanced back over her shoulder at Barbara, who was watching her with soft brown eyes that caught the sunlight, a mirriad of warm tones stirring their depths as she tilted her head slightly to one side and smile encouragingly. Biting at her bottom lip Mercedes shifted back to face her. 

 

“Oh, uhm, okay,” she pondered for a moment, trying to think of something, something not too intimate, something not too dark for a Tuesday morning, something that did not give too much away. 

 

“I never ever, ever thought that piano lessons could possibly be enjoyable, let alone my favourite part of every week,” she admitted, the first thing that came to mind. Barbara laughed, shaking her head so that the waves of her dark hair sitting against her shoulders shifted, and slipped down, the ends of one lock falling into her coffee cup and skimming the surface of her drink. Mercedes thought to mention it, but couldn’t seem to form the words to do so when Barbara fixed her with a look that made her stomach flip nervously. 

 

“Mercedes Moller, you are by far my favourite student. In fact, my favourite person. I am very glad you decided to take piano lessons.”

 

“No I’m not,” Mercedes replied immediately, before she could stop herself, as she watched Barbara lift her coffee cup back to her lips and slowly drain the last mouthful, “but, you are mine.” It was true, and she had never thought about it in these past few weeks, but somehow it occurred to her so suddenly now that she said so without a second thought. Barbara was her favourite person. Her favourite person to speak to, to spend time with. She was interesting, and smart, and worldly, and sweet. So incredibly sweet. Never had anyone been so kind and patient with Mercedes before that she could recall. They spoke about everything and nothing at all, and Mercedes could have stayed in that little house with its overgrown gardens and small kitchen and drafty window for all her life and want for nothing, talking with Barbara over cups of tea and coffee, and reading in a corner while the other woman played, and the only problem at all with this scenario inside of Mercedes head as she sat on the bench and pondered it was the fact that for all her days in the other woman’s company, she felt certain that she would watch those pink lips smile gently at her and her chest would be filled with this unspoken want to kiss them. She watched Barbara’s mouth now, as she swallowed the last mouthful and pursed them, the corners turning up as she tried to suppress the smile that wished to take them over. She swiped her tongue across her bottom lip nervously, for the first time Mercedes could recall seemingly at a loss for words, before she swallowed and looked up at the bright morning sky. 

 

“Are you finished with your coffee? I’d like to show you something before you go home, if that’s okay?”

 

Mercedes nodded quickly, despite the fact that her coffee was still barely half drunk, the liquid already going cold inside her cup, and rose to follow Barbara back inside. They slipped their shoes off in the front hall, and Mercedes watched the soles of Barbara’s bare feet as she walked across the floorboards in front of her, following into the kitchen to place their cups into the sink, unable quite to meet Barbara’s eyes with her head spinning again with thoughts of Barbara’s lips, with this ridiculous notion that she could not dispel of wanting to kiss her. Barbara led her back to the piano, reaching into the box that sat on top filled with sheet music, and riffled through the pages quietly, until she found what she was looking for a pulled it out, a softly whispered ‘aha!’ of triumph passing her lips unconsciously in such an endearing way that Mercedes grinned as she watched her, waiting patiently with her hands clasped together.

 

“You told me in one of our first lessons that there was a song you wanted to learn how to play, Danza, by Julian Bautista?” Barbara held out the sheet music to Mercedes, the younger woman taking the pages carefully in her hands and running her fingers across the notes, “I had an old friend find me a copy in Santiago and send it down, so next lesson we can begin to learn it.” Mercedes blinked and looked up to finally meet Barbara’s eyes again, pressing the sheets to her chest. 

  
“ _ Barbara _ ,” she sighed, trying to think of precisely what to say, and in the momentary absence of words reaching up to tuck back the loose strand of hair that fell across the other woman’s cheek, “This is the sweetest thing that anyone has ever done for me.” She only meant to express how truly touched she was by the gesture, but found her hand lingering against Barbara’s cheek, which was reddening beneath her touch, and felt her stomach drop nervously as those dark brown eyes slipped from her own down to trace Mercedes mouth with their gaze. Mercedes swallowed nervously, feeling an inexplicable pull, like gravity pushing her forward, drawing her towards Barbara, pushing her up onto the toes of her bare feet as Barbara leant down, so that their lips met in the middle. She felt their warmth brush against hers for a moment uncertainty, as though asking permission, and let her eyelids flutter closed, Barbara inhaling shakily before pressing down and capturing Mercedes mouth gently with her own. And then Mercedes was caught up in every sensation of it all at once, like the crescendo of a piano piece, those notes sounding all at once and so loudly that they could not so much be heard as felt, the music seeming to set a fire within your chest. That is how it felt to kiss Barbara Roman. An indescribable but intense rush of feelings all at once that overwhelmed you, but that you hoped would not end. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you lovely people read my stories, leave sweet comments, or even just kudos, you make me so incredibly happy <3 Thank you so much. 
> 
>  
> 
> (I also apologise if there are any mistakes in this chapter, it was a more rushed edit than usual!)


	8. You'll Never Walk Alone

At first it was delicate and chaste, Barbara’s mouth pressing lightly against her own, capturing her bottom lip gently, pulling back for a moment to breathe before re-claiming her again. She felt Barbara’s hands graze along her arms and hesitate at her waist, before grasping her hips to pull her closer forward. Everywhere that they touched, with each spark of contact, she felt heat and nervous energy erupt within her body, her own hand shaking against Barbara’s cheek, and her grip on the sheet music pressed between them loosening until it fell down onto the hardwood floor, forgotten somewhere in the dust beneath the piano.

 

There was no room for coherent thoughts or questions as Mercedes kissed back with abandon, a cacophony of feeling overwhelmed all of her senses until she thought only in sensations. Heat and goosebumps and the scent of jasmine. A nervous twisting, fluttering, churning within her stomach that threw her world off balance. The happiness within her heart that seemed to fill it so that it felt as though it might burst, pressing tight against her rib cage. Mercedes melted into Barbara's arms as they encircled her, tasting the coffee lacing her tongue as it ran across her bottom lip, and found this awakened such a deep and urgent wanting within her that she had never felt before, nor anything close to. So strong that without thinking she opened her mouth, sighing into Barbara’s delicately, her free hand curling at the back of Barbara’s neck so that the piano teacher shivered at her touch and stumbled back.

 

The sound of the other woman falling onto the piano keys clumsily, the shrill and jarring sound of the discordant notes, seemed to tear open the blissful reverie that had entranced her. Mercedes pulled back, feeling the cold air against her mouth where the warmth of Barbra’s had been pressed as she blinked uncertainty. Her body still pressed against Barbara’s where she now rested against the piano, leaning into the other woman still tenderly holding onto her. Barbara seemed to have frozen, hands hovering against her lower back, and dark brown eyes wide as she waited for Mercedes to say or do anything at all. For some sign or signal of what came next.  Having led their kiss, guided the younger woman in the to and fro of their lips, she now allowed Mercedes to take the lead, to set the rules for how to proceed from here. Mercedes opened her mouth to speak, and closed it again when nothing but warm breath passed her lips, instead carefully withdrawing her hands and stepping back, almost tripping over the piano stool nervously.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she found herself muttering, embarrassed and awkward, suddenly overly aware of herself, of her whole being that she wished could disappear, of her clumsy hands that she clasped behind her back. As though by lacing her fingers together tightly she might restrain them from, _from what?_ From reaching out again to seek that warmth that passed between them and filled her so blissfully that even now, as she thought how wrong it was for her to kiss her, still too she thought how much she would like to do so again.

 

“No, no, Mercedes, don’t apologise,” Barbara urged quietly, two lone notes resounding as she moved off of the piano and bumped the keys again, seeming to fill the space between her soft words as she moved towards Mercedes cautiously, “Please don’t.” The first had been a gentle reassurance, but the second was almost pleading and Mercedes looked back to finally meet Barbara’s eyes, to find them watching her so nervously, brown depths filled with uncertainty and fear that both scared her and made her desperately want to quash any such feelings immediately, no matter what it took to do so. Even if she should have to lie and say the kiss meant nothing, something she had never been good at or liked much at all, for Barbara she would.

 

“I- I shouldn’t have-” her tongue couldn’t not quite push the word out of her mouth, _kiss_ , I shouldn’t have kissed you, as though it were a secret or a sin, but she shook her head and insisted to herself it was nothing but a meaningless mistake, a mistake that she could rectify and go on to pretend had never happened, “It wont happen again, I promise.” The house, the room, usually so filled by sound and by music, had never felt so silent as in the wake of those words as she waited for a response. She watched as Barbara turned back towards the piano, leaning against the wooden top as she inhaled deeply, she drummed her fingers against the surface and then she nodded her head.

 

“It’s fine Mercedes, it’s fine. I will see you tomorrow, okay?” She spoke clearly and calmly, as though everything _were_ fine, but she would not turn to face her, so see the demure way that Mercedes nodded and chewed at the inside of her cheek as she looked about and remembered there was nothing to take with her. Her eyes caught the spine of _Idylle Saphique_ , still sitting on the coffee table where she had left it the night before, and she considered and then dispelled the thought of borrowing it, instead walking quickly barefoot across the living room floor to the front hall, and slipping on her shoes.

 

It was the first time Barbara did not walk her to the front door. The first time she did not kiss her cheek farewell, lingering for a moment longer than needed so close to her that Mercedes could remember with perfect clarity the scent of her shampoo the whole way home. The first time she did not wish her goodbye in such a sweetly sincere way that Mercedes felt the parting would carry her through until their next meeting on dreams of the evening light against those gentle brown eyes watching her leave. She swallowed, and tried to push down the rising unease in her stomach as she took the steps down from the patio. How could she have been so thoughtless? As always, she had let herself get swept away and forgotten about the consequences, acting only on emotion.

 

As she approached the edge of the garden, bare arms unusually warm under the sun where they would usually make her shiver in the oncoming night, she glanced back over her shoulder and found the familiar silhouette watching her from the doorway, and the uncomfortable twist in her stomach eased just a little to know that not everything had changed. That Barbara still waited nervously to watch her until she disappeared from view and worried over her making her journey home, and so perhaps their friendship was not ruined. Perhaps things could returned to how they had been again, given some time. If only she could make herself forget how it felt to kiss her. How it felt to for a moment feel that _want_ so recklessly, to give in to that longing and be fulfilled, and to _feel wanted_ , to be taken in Barbara’s arms like that and feel so safe within their gentle embrace. Even if it was just a mistake, even if surely Barbara could not possibly return these feelings that she had, to for a moment feel as though maybe she might.

 

-

 

Mercedes arrived early, as though it was just another lesson, and was glad to hear the sound of music floating out into the garden as she approached the house, staring up at it with a renewed love for every cracked tile and creaking window frame, to look upon the flowers gently waving in the breeze and for it to feel just the same. The house and garden unchanged, unmarred by the storm, the plants flourishing as ever after the sky had watered them so generously. It felt the same, even if she felt different within herself, if she carried now a secret wish that she held at bay and memories she had replayed a thousand times last night in her bed, alone in the solitude of her room so that for just a moment she could allow herself to get lost within them.

 

She had Barbara’s borrowed dress, washed and dried and neatly folded, tucked into a bag over her shoulder that swung against her hip as she took the last step with a bounce, and turned to sit on the edge of the patio. The backs of her shoes slipped from her heels as she swung her feet down over the edge, letting the breeze tenderly brush the sore spots where her flats rubbed as she walked. She closed her eyes, feeling the sun kiss the backs of the closed lids, its glow invading her darkness as she let the flowing notes wash over her and tried to calm her racing heart. She had survived a restless night and agitated morning but she still felt so nervous to see Barbara again, after the events of yesterday how would she act and what would she say? _The events_ , she shook her head, as though even in her own mind she could not say _their kiss_. But just thinking the word made her remember again the electricity that coursed through her body as Barbara’s lips pressed to her own.

 

She heard the door creak behind her, and blinked into the sunlight, realising that the music had stopped and she had been too distracted to notice. Maybe it was that their kiss seemed to have a music all of its own, a distinct unheard melody that she felt in her skin as she recalled it, that had filled the silence in the wake of the piano notes having faded out. She glanced back over her shoulder and found Barbara standing in the doorway, looking down at her fondly with her head leant against the back of her hand gripping the door frame. Those chocolate brown eyes today held such a mix of emotions that Mercedes could not distinguish one from another, a meld of dark and light, mahogany and chestnut intertwined and unreadable as the piano teacher offered her a reserved smile and stepped back, shifting her cardigan as it slipped down her left shoulder.

 

“Coming inside?” she asked teasingly, and Mercedes felt herself sigh a small breath of relief, and nodded as she scrambled to her feet.

 

“Of course.”

 

Barbara closed the door behind her once she entered, Mercedes crouching down to remove her shoes and place them neatly against the wall, and letting the light jacket slip from her shoulders, down the length of her arms, but not quite able to reach the hook in order to hang it. She felt Barbara hesitate for a moment beside her, and then reach around to take the garment from her hand, carefully gripping it just below Mercedes’ fingers so that they did not quite touch.

 

“Here, let me.” Mercedes felt the words against her shoulder, and released her grip, moving back out of the way so that Barbara could reach up and hang it over the hook. Even she had to extend her long, dainty arms to reach, leaving Mercedes to watch the way that her torso stretched beneath the fabric of her dress, the curve of her spine, before she succeeded and lowered her arms gratefully, turning back with an amused smile as she noted;

 

“I have always wondered about the previous owners of this house. The hooks are high, but the doorways are low, it doesn’t make much sense at all, does it?” she laughed, the act contagious, and Mercedes did as well, giggling as she tried to imagine what could account for such a silly idea. She relaxed her shoulders, thankful for the way that Barbara always seemed to know exactly how to make her laugh, to put her at ease, how to make her feel welcome and safe. The tension seemed to lessen, though not releasing all together, and she followed Barbara into the living room just as always, taking a seat on the very left hand side of the piano stool and clasping her damp palms together nervously. The pages of crisp, white paper resting on the music rack today caught her attention, different from the faded and discoloured sheets that they usually played from, and she glanced across them curiously, half of the lines still unfilled, waiting for a melody to be given to them.

 

“What’s this?” Mercedes asked, pointing to the blank music sheets with handwritten notes scrawled in pencil. She looked up to where Barbara stood at the edge of the piano, music book in hand, to see her blush and rush to gather the paper quickly into her arms and sweep it out of sight, beneath a pile of books on top of the piano. Afterwards she gave Mercedes a sheepish look and shook her head.

 

“It’s just uhm- something original I have been messing around with. But it isn’t finished yet.” She explained, as she placed the book in her hands in its spot instead.

 

“Like, an original piece of music that you’re composing?” Mercedes asked eagerly, turning to better face Barbara as she sat down beside her, not meeting her gaze. She watched the corner of her mouth twitch, fighting a smile, as she opened up the music book.  
  
“Exactly that.” Mercedes was intrigued, so much that she could not possibly hold her tongue, looking at Barbara curiously. She paused for a moment, in awe of this woman who consistently managed to surprise her and take her breath away with both her brilliant mind and bewitching looks. Much as she had tried and tried to deny it, she was entirely enamoured by her.

 

“What inspires you, when you are writing a new piece of music? What is your muse?” she asked. Barbara took her question, as always, very seriously and thoughtfully, and gave her a very soft and somewhat intense smile as she responded, those deep brown eyes making Mercedes stomach squirm delightfully as they met her own.

 

“Something very, very beautiful,” she replied mysteriously, and then turned the page of the song they were supposed to be learning, pointing to the first line.


	9. Comptine d'un autre été : L'après-midi

It had been a week since their kiss. A week without knowing again the taste of Barbara’s mouth. And a week of thinking endlessly of only this. Barbara had refused to accept the borrowed yellow dress back, looking for a moment as though she might repeat again her compliment of that morning she had leant it, and then pressing her lips together and seeming to hold her tongue. And so Mercedes had held hers as well since then, they had not spoken a word of what had happened, and yet it seemed to fill their every interaction, looming at the back of each lingering look or touch, until she thought that surely she could bare it no more.

 

“Will you show me?” Mercedes asked, a tremor in her voice, perhaps the shaking of her nervous hands reverberating in her throat as well. Or maybe that was the thrum of her heart beat, pattering so quickly within her chest that the vibrations against her ribs could travel all the way to her vocal chords and shake her words, so that a simple question became a tentative plea. The warmth of the afternoon sun through the window fell across the back of her neck, where she had swept her hair across one shoulder, and caressed her skin just above where the pale yellow collar of the dress (once Barbara’s, and now hers) dipped. Under the gaze of those smoldering brown eyes however the heat there seemed to burn, and rush down her spine as though the ghost of the other woman’s fingers were trailing down her back, as she had imagined that they had in her dream the night before. She had remembered their embrace on that stormy night, but re-imagined with an entirely different ending to what had really taken place, an ‘if I had’ scenario played out in the safety of her mind. The now known touch of those lips, but in places not yet travelled. Now they pursed thoughtfully. She watched the way that Barbara exhaled, as though steadying herself before she leant in, and placed her hands onto the keys. She had looked for a moment as though the world were off kilter, and then with her hands hovering over the piano and her eyes softly raking across the sheet music before her, she seemed to find her gravity.   
  
“Like this,” she replied gently, showing with exaggerated movements the way to position her fingers over the notes, and then closing her eyes she pressed first her index and then her pointer and thumb, and delicately began to walk them, at first slowly, and then faster, across the keys. Her fingers weaving like the legs of a dancer, and with somewhat of that same flourish too. Knowing exactly where to press, and how much pressure to use, to extract from the instrument exactly what she needed, to make it sing for her so beautifully, but also with so much passion.

 

Mercedes bit her lip unconsciously, kneading it as she watched and decided that to hear Barbara play was heavenly, but to watch her was something else entirely. An experience that could not simply be described, but had to be felt. It was somewhat like the way that it had used to feel in church when she was younger, the feeling of awe and of otherness when your footsteps echoed on the stone floor and you looked up at the stain glass windows, and they reminded you that the world was so much larger than yourself. When for the first time you really thought about what that meant, and it felt like an entire universe of possibility rushing in at you all at once. Or perhaps it was like the feeling of being kissed by Barbara Roman, that overwhelming and all consuming sensation, the other woman able to stir emotions within Mercedes body with the way that she played, to elicit the memory of the heat of her mouth and cause her to shiver as she watched Barbara lean into the melody.

 

Or, she hummed thoughtfully to herself as Barbara’s fingers softly peddled the two highest notes quickly, the song building in intensity to a peak,  there were simply no words at all. And for someone such as herself who lived in words, took comfort and strength in their steadying fortitude, perhaps that was even more powerful a statement. To realise there came a point when words were not enough, when sound could convey a sentiment with far more perfect clarity. For a moment she was too enthralled to remember that Barbara had stopped playing, those eyelids fluttering open again as she withdrew her hands back into her lap and glanced across to find Mercedes watching her. Her cotton candy pink complexion darkened into a rosy crimson across her cheek bones, which she tried to shake off by making light of the moment and pulling a silly face. Mercedes was not sure whether to feel embarrassed to have been caught staring so openly, or entirely amused and bewitched by Barbara’s playful nature, falling somewhere in the middle and sniggering as she turned her head away and tried to compose herself. She squeezed the edge of the piano stool beneath her hands where they rested either side of her, and felt the brush of Barbara’s thigh against her right hand as she re-adjusted her position. She wondered if Barbara noticed, if she minded. She thought about small things like this a lot recently, perhaps too much, now constantly wondering where the line was, or obviously towing it to try to gauge the piano teacher’s reaction.

 

“You play so beautifully,” she sighed, finally looking back as Barbara turned back the page, “you are in another realm. When you play…. The way that your hands move, the way that you… touch the keys. It’s like we aren’t even doing the same thing. Does that make sense?” She watched the proud smile that turned up the soft corners of Barbara’s mouth.  

 

“Mercedes, you can hardly compare. You have been taking lessons only for just over a month now. I was playing Mozart when I was 5 years old. I played my first recital when I was 11. I have years and years and years on you yet, even for _my age_ ,” she laughed, turning on the stool to better face Mercedes as she spoke, settling into the same position she often took when it was clear that piano was to be put aside for a moment. A kind of relaxed and yet elegant pose that Mercedes was sure she could never achieve. She loved that, because each time that Barbara did so it was as if she was showing how much she enjoyed their conversations. For someone who loved music so much to prefer to speak to her than to play, even just for a few stolen moments. She would see the way the Barbara’s eyes lit up as she leant against the edge of the piano, and told Mercedes stories, and listened to hers intently in return. The way she would gently probe the younger woman with questions, that showed equally her intrigue to know anything and everything about Mercedes, as Mercedes did about her. Mercedes felt her own story rather plain, but Barbara’s was fascinating both of it’s own accord, as well as simply because it was hers.

 

“They said you were a child prodigy, but, I admit I am a little speechless. That’s so young. You played a recital at 11? As in, your very own concert?” Mercedes asked.

  
“Yes, exactly that. I suppose it is quite young. But we were a very musical family, my grandfather was a pianist as well, my mother was a singer, and my father was absolutely horrible at every instrument invented but listened to everything and anything and was utterly obsessed with music. I have been playing for as long as I can remember.” For someone so closed, so obviously not used to sharing the intimacies of her thoughts and memories with others, Barbara always seemed to want to open up to her. Like each time that she was able to give a little more of herself and her story there was a weight lifting from her shoulders, and a contentedness filling her chest that buoyed her. And with every small sliver of information, every glimpse or image of Barbara’s life and her past, Mercedes felt much the same. The mosaic slowly constructing of this intensely passionate, immensely kind, and thoroughly interesting woman slowly building in her mind, and making it entirely impossible to deny what she was feeling to a point that she found she almost did not want to.

 

“You’re amazing.” For once she said so not unintentionally, not cowardly mumbling beneath her breath, but quite assuredly. Perhaps a part of her thought it was something Barbara needed to hear, but a part of her as well just needed to tell her, for her to know that she thought of her like this. As amazing. If the word even began to express how much she admired and adored her. Barbara shook her head shyly, and raking a hand through her hair, trying to restrain herself from refuting the kind words, but unable to simply accept them either.

 

“Oh, Mercedes, that is so sweet of you. No, I just love it. I have all my life. I studied for a time in Paris under Marguerite Long, a french pianist and composer, before we returned again to Santiago when my grandmother fell ill. She was my idol, I just adored her. And I was only 12 years old at the time, but I looked her and thought, that is who I want to be when I grow up. Someone who still loves the piano that much. And I would die if I ever grew sick of it. Quite dramatic I am sure, but sometimes I do still think that that is true.”

 

“So then, why don’t you perform any more?” Mercedes asked gently, “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want, it’s just-” her words fell silent as she felt Barbara’s hand settle across the back of her own where it still gripped the edge of the piano seat between them, squeezing gently as a way to say that she did not mind at all.

 

“It’s- it’s still a little hard to talk about, but I do want to tell you Mercedes. I have never wanted to tell anyone before, but with you, I really do,” she told her, looking up towards the grand wooden beams across the ceiling and sighing heavily, “The last time that I was meant to perform a concert in Santiago my parents had come up from Viña to watch. They came to most of my concerts, even though I was twenty by then they hardly missed a single one if they could help it. But I- I was distracted, I entirely forgot about the concert and I never showed up, and they were driving to come and find me when they had the accident.” She still could not seem to meet Mercedes gaze, but Barbara’s hand still squeezed hers, and Mercedes twisted hers in the soft grip of her fingers so that she could entangle their fingers and squeeze back. She waited a moment, letting silence fill the room all the way up to the high ceilings, in case there was any more that Barbara wanted to say. When she felt certain there was not she wiggled across so that she could wrap her other arm around Barbara’s shoulders, and pull the tall woman in against her in an awkward one armed hug, still holding her hand tightly. _This_ felt like a moment when words were not enough, but neither did she have the gift of music that Barbra did, and so she settled instead for the reassurance of her touch, holding Barbara softly but tightly as the older woman had held her on that night, and hoping that the warmth of her arms might bring even a fraction of the solace she knew Barbara’s brought her.


	10. Fly Me To The Moon

It was a particularly warm Saturday and Mercedes had agreed to join Elsa at the river at her friend’s request. There were no piano lessons on weekends, which mean two whole days until she would see Barbara again, and she needed the distraction. By the water the sound of crickets and the sizzle of the heat in the air filled the space as they reached the bank. The other woman’s confession played on her mind still, the way that her bottom lip had trembled when she finally pulled out of Mercedes embrace, and she had wanted to run her thumb across it gently, and then felt guilty for thinking about the softness of her mouth when Barbara was so upset. She could not help it though, in Barbara’s proximity she was a tangled mess of feelings that could not be controlled. She wanted to make Barbara feel better any way that she might have to offer, would do anything to see her smile again. The guilt in those dark eyes that she had seen so many times and not recognised before made her stomach twist, and yet she felt so hopeless, for what could she possibly do to stop Barbara from feeling like that? Nothing but hug her, and listen quietly, and offer to make her a cup of tea. Which is precisely what she had done, and yet it did not feel enough.

When Barbara had kissed her cheek goodbye that late afternoon, as the sun was still setting and the sky was bleeding out, she had for the first time turned her head quickly as Barbara went to pull away, and pressed her lips to the other woman’s cheek in return. She had felt Barbara stiffen for a moment, and then relax into the touch of her kiss, the press of her lips leaving the softest blush where they had been. When she had pulled away she realised that Barbara’s skin still held the salty taste of the few stray tears that had escaped, and it made her not want to leave at all, even though Barbara was smiling at her then like she had not a care in the world, sighing happily had whispered “ _my sweet Mercedes_ ,”, before stepping out of her space. She had replayed the memory a thousand times since then, the warm sunset colours staining Barbara’s skin where she stood leaning against the door. And every time she did, she felt again that pang of want and of affection.

Elsa had been talking the whole way, but Mercedes had found herself inattentive and distracted, all of her friends words seeming to loose meaning and become only a rising and falling melody as she spoke, able to determine when to nod or to shake her head depending on the rhythm and the tone. Elsa seemed to notice her absence from their conversation, bumping their shoulders as they reached their favourite spot.

  
“Tell me something I don’t know,” she probed gently as she slipped off her shoes, bare feet stepping timidly onto the warm earth. She watched Mercedes take a seat on the grass, shoulders slumping as she sighed and stared out at the water. The glimmer of the sun across its surface made her squint. This was her friends way of asking what was on her mind, but she wasn’t quite sure if she was brave enough to share it yet.

“How did you know that you were in love?” she asked instead, and leant back on the palms of her hands to look up as Elsa stood over her. Her friend frowned thoughtfully.

“So curious today Meche, but I’m glad, I missed all of your questions. You’ve been more quiet of late,” she replied warmly, stepping down towards where the rivers edge lapped at the land, letting the water splash across the tips of her toes, “It’s hard to say, I suppose… it was, when you realise that someone makes you feel both safe and terrified at the same time, but also so happy that you know you have no choice but to throw the fear aside, and take the plunge.” Her eyes were staring across at the opposite shoreline, and yet Mercedes did not think she was looking at anything at all. Elsa appeared pensive for a moment before she glanced back across her shoulder and smiled sadly.

“I didn’t know that you felt so strongly for Horacio,” Mercedes confessed, leaning forward to rest her chin on the tops of her bent knees, wrapping her arms around her legs. She watched the way that Elsa’s expression faltered, and then composed itself again quickly, shaking her head as she began to wade deeper into the water, lifting the hem of her skirt so as to keep it dry.

“Anyone would think you had finally found someone you were interested in, Mechita,” she deflected instead, with a playful smile, her eyes sparkling with the reflection of light off of the water. She twirled around, and the water splashed up her calves, relieving them of the heat from the air, and Mercedes watched thoughtfully, unanswering.

She did not know what exactly it was, but she had been drawn to Barbara since that very first moment that she heard her voice through the door, that she saw her smile and was entranced by the warmth of her eyes. Like a constant pull, as though gravity drew them together. An ache within her chest as though something within in her knew instantly, before she had know herself, and that longing manifested itself in a visceral sensation that could not be ignored. It had been her instinct to fight and to deny it, as though it might be possible to talk herself out of feeling as she did. As thought by not naming it, she took the power from it. As though if the words never passed her lips they could not be true.

Perhaps it was because Barbara was a woman - something Mercedes had never thought possible, or ever even pondered over at all. Or maybe it was the fact that a part of her had started to wonder if she was capable of such emotions at all. Never had she felt the way that her peers had described to her over the boys in the village, not once, not even a little. She had tried, she had wanted to, reading the sweeping romances of her literature and trying to imagine herself in such stories, trying to picture feeling how those words described about the very sweet boy who had offered to walk her home from school. But nothing about him caught her attention at all, no boy ever had, no matter how nice or ‘good looking’ (according to Elsa and Augusta) they were. Not the boys of her childhood in Villa Ruiseñor, nor the young men of Santiago she had been introduced to. Her brothers called her fussy, and Augusta teased her, mocked her of being in love with only books.

A part of her had begun to believe the latter to be true, thinking about what her future might hold and picturing a life dedicated to literature and to learning, perhaps becoming a teacher, and imagining that she might just be satisfied to be passionate about words rather than to feel passion with another person. Until Barbara had come along and changed all of that. Until the piano teacher had stepped into her life out of nowhere, and she wondered how she had gone her whole life so far without knowing such a person, a person who now seemed to touch every minute of her every day, whether she was with her or not.

In Barbara she had found a friend unlike any friend she had had before, someone who listened to everything she had to say and genuinely heard her, who saw her and made her feel that she was seen. A woman who provoked thought and feeling. Who stirred within her a fire that had always simmered beneath the surface, channeling this long held uncomfortability with the way she had been told that life was meant to be into a concept upon which she could take a stand. And evoking too every single one of those feelings she had read about, desire of companionship and comfort, and carnal desire too, a want that both consumed her and filled her with purpose. Until the only possible resolution she could think of became clear.

“Elsa,” she called out to the young woman wading in the waters, turning back to her inquisitively. For a moment they could have been fifteen years old again, finally having escaped the suffocating heat of their classroom for the day and finding a quiet moment out of sight beneath the dappled shade, and it held a bittersweet nostalgia to know how much and yet how little had changed since then. Her old friend, now sister-in-law, raising her eyebrows in question and giving her a bemused smile.

“I have to go, I’m sorry, I just- I just remembered something. I’ll see you later, okay?” Mercedes called out breathlessly, rising back onto her feet and dusting off her dress. Elsa looked perplexed.

“Oh, do you need any help?” she asked, moving back towards the shore, till the water only swayed at her ankles as she looked up at her friend. Mercedes smiled at her and shook her head, stepping down to the edge of the water, and not worrying that the toes of her shoes got wet.

“You have already helped enough, thank you friend,” she leant forward and pressed a kiss to Elsa’s cheek, before turning and hurrying back up the bank, hot dust sticking to her now damp shoes as she walked faster, and then ran, over the rising slope of the bank until she disappeared from Elsa’s sight and down the road.

Barbara’s house was not too far from their favourite river spot, and running with the skirt of her dress bunched in her hands it took her not ten minutes to reach the edge of the sprawling garden. It was only as she slowed to a brisk walk, tossing aside the soft curls of her hair where they pressed to the warm back of her neck, that she realised she hadn’t put quite enough thought into what she would say once she got there, finding herself hovering awkwardly at the edge of the garden, leaning against the trunk of the myrtle tree by the front path to catch her breath. As the day was hot all of the windows and doors of the house had been thrown open, the soft dry breeze drifting through and ruffling the curtains. Mercedes watched quietly as the house and the garden hummed pleasantly, creating with their movement a kind of rambling summer tune that felt exactly like what a lazy weekend ought to, that made you want to sit on a park bench and listen to the world sing, and think of absolutely nothing. Here was Barbara’s little haven, and hers as well though she had no claim to it at all, other than how her heart felt so full when she was there.

She looked at her feet for a moment and wondered, was she really brave enough? To risk all that could be lost, this space where she felt so safe, this woman whom she adored, for the chance of something more. Was that selfish, or hopeful? She exhaled heavily and licked her lips, stepping forward on the path up towards the house, as she heard the first note of the piano float out of the living room window, followed soon after by the introduction to a peice that sounded somewhat familiar, though she wasn’t sure what it was or where she had heard it. She walked slowly towards the front of the house, listening as she did so to the music, a melody so sweetly hopefully, so dramatically passionate, until it came to an abrupt halt and she heard the sound of Barbara’s voice, the delightful noise of triumph that she made when she felt she had succeeded in some small task. Faintly, the sound of a pencil scratching quickly across paper as she approach the open front door, contemplating whether or not to knock. The decision was rendered null when the floorboard beneath her foot creaked loudly, and she heard the scrape of the piano stools legs across the floor, the familiar footsteps through the living room into the entrance. Barbara’s curious eyes met hers, and she seemed to let out a sigh of relief, the worried line of her mouth softening into a smile.

“Mercedes, what a pleasant surprise,” she greeted her, carding a hand through the soft dark waves of her loose hair as they stood on either side of the doorway.

Now finally was the time for words, that at which she had always excelled, Mercedes' forte. When they were apart words filled her, words spun in her head and whispered through her dreams, and she overflowed with long winded descriptions of her feelings for Barbara. Words had been her comfort and her guide, untangling her feelings slowly to reveal the truth of her affections. And yet, in front of Barbara they now seemed to evaporate from her mind, her mouth left empty, swallowing nervously as she twisted her hands behind her back. Now was the time to speak, but sighing heavily she stepped across the threshold and pushed up onto her toes to kiss her, capturing Barbara’s lips softly in her own.


	11. Cuerpo y Alma

For a moment she thought she had made a horrible mistake, that as she had feared her affections were not returned and her impulsiveness had again cost her, but this time dearly. The thought of having lost Barbara in her life, in any capacity, felt like water rising in her throat, stifling her breath. Barbara was still, unmoving in the open doorway as Mercedes kissed her, arms hanging loosely by her sides. The dry breeze brushed her finger tips and rustled the folds of her skirt as it had the curtains in her windows, the fluttering material becoming another note in the song of the house and the garden. With the feeling of embarrassment rushing hot through her veins and curdling in her stomach Mercedes began to pull back, when she felt the lips under hers move, kissing back gently, pulling her in again. Barbara exhaled heavily against her mouth, almost a sigh of defeat, and of ecstasy, her hand coming to press at the base of Mercedes’ back in order to pull her closer. 

 

Her mouth tasted like Borgoña, the heavy mulled flavour of the wine with the mingled hint of strawberries lacing her tongue, contrastly both bitter and sweet. Mercedes had never had much of a liking for it before, but suddenly it was her favourite flavour, the taste filling her mouth as she tangled her fingers in Barbara’s hair. Never again would she tentatively sip her drink on a lazy summer afternoon amongst friends and family without remembering the way that Barbara’s mouth felt against hers, or how her stomach felt as though it fell away under their touch, or the way the hair on the back of her neck stood on end as she felt the piano teacher’s tongue run over the roof of her mouth. The heat of the afternoon seemed to soak into her skin, to fill her veins, to curl in the bottom of her stomach. 

 

She kissed Barbara’s lips, and hoped her mouth conveyed the message with touch as well as it did with sound; that she was hopelessly and irrevocably enamoured by her, to a point that she could no longer contain it. She hoped that it exuded from her skin, and hammered in the beat of her pulse where her hands pressed to Barbara’s neck, these feelings that had consumed her. A sensation she had never thought possible, both this romanticized idea that she had of what such feelings should be like, sweet affections, butterflies and sweaty palms, and yet also an urgent and strong desire, that she had always presumed should not fit together as well as they did. These two ways of feeling about about a person that she had supposed should clash, in fact sang in perfect harmony. How was it that she felt both so contented in her presence, so elated at a simple conversation with Barbara, and yet this same person whom she felt such a connection of intellect with also made her skin burn with the smallest touch? The person whom she felt could speak to for an eternity and never grow bored of their conversations, she also felt she could never tire of kissing, could not imagine ever wanting to stop touching her, or there being a day when her touch did not seem to bring on a fever, to spark yearning in her chest. 

 

Barbara stumbled back further into the entrance hall, taking Mercedes with her, their lips still entangled. She let herself bump back against the coats hanging against the wall, steadying herself and her now weak knees as she leant her weight against the house, pulling Mercedes closer against her so that their fronts were pressed together and she could feel the soft curves of her figure. She was no longer certain if her head spun from the indulgent summer beverage she had been sipping as she played, or simply the effect that Mercedes had on her every time that she invaded her space. Any time that the sweet young woman’s soft hands or contagious smile touched her, she seemed to lose her head. If just a smile had put her off balance, Mercedes’ kiss was dizzying in a way that felt exhilarating and with every press of their lips left her craving for more. 

 

She slid one hand up the length of Mercedes side, grazed the top of her shoulder and the curve of her neck, to cup her face so that she could tilt Mercedes’ head back, deepening their kiss, her tongue brushing Mercedes’ and eliciting a soft moan sighed into her mouth. Barbara felt the heat in her body pooling between her legs, aching there, where Mercedes’ leg stopped just short of pressing against her, and finally she pulled back breathlessly, slumping back against the wall behind her fully in order to place a sliver of space between their bodies. Her head fell back against the cushion of the jackets, her eyes falling closed for a moment as she tried to catch her breath and regain some amount of control. As though by calming her ragged breathing, so too she could calm the mix of hormones and feelings that flooded her veins and sang out to kiss her again, to reclaim the reddened lips still imprinted on the backs of her eyelids.

 

Her hands still rested gently at the back of Mercedes’ neck and the dip of her back, her thumb tracing circles against Mercedes’ skin reassuringly, not wanting her to panic as she had before, not wanting to leave a inch of room for doubt as to how she felt in return. That these feelings were mutual. That she had been enchanted by her the moment she had opened her door and found that hopeful, thoughtful gaze watching her. The moment Mercedes had opened her mouth and filled her house with the sweet melody of her voice, the warmth of her stumbling words, the richness of her deepest thoughts. That there had been electricity in their touch since the first time Barbara had gently pressed a hand against Mercedes’ back to guide her, and almost withdrawing from the contact, the way the spark had jolted her so sharply. She had been distracted by the effect of her touch since the first time their knees had grazed as they sat at the piano. And it had only grown with every passing day, just when she felt she could not possibly feel more for the young woman with clumsy piano fingers another lesson would come. Mercedes would make her laugh, and smile, and think, she would tremble nervously under the touch of Barbara’s hands, and blush beneath her gaze, and linger longer than needed, and find excuses to stay, and Barbara would find herself overcome by the affection and attraction she felt for her. When she opened her eyes again the soft, tumultuous greens and blues of Mercedes’ met hers hesitantly. 

 

“Barbara, I’m sorry-” she began to whisper, and Barbara cut her off, kissing her again, stealing the words from her lips and drawing back slowly. 

 

“No apologies, no excuses,” she replied, pressing their foreheads gently and running her thumb across Mercedes cheek, “You don’t need to be scared, Mercedes, I- I feel the same, okay?” She watched the way that Mercedes smiled, her face seeming to light up as the corners of her lips rose, and she relaxed into the embrace of Barbara’s arms for a moment, the safety of her warmth a comfort as it had been when a storm had raged outside, now too when the day was calm but a storm raged within. 

 

-

 

“We should talk, about, everything.” The sentence that had disturbed their tranquility with its quiet words. The couch would have been more comfortable, the appropriate place for such a conversation, but the piano made them both feel safe, and so it was that Mercedes sat on the edge of the stool as Barbara stood in front of her, leaning against the instrument as she raked a hand through her hair. 

 

“So what does this mean?” Mercedes asked, hands clasped in her lap. She was looking at the dirty ends of her shoes, today muddy rather than dusty, where she tapped them together in a nervous habit. 

 

“The kiss? Or, our feelings?” Barbara asked. Her smile was nervous, and it was so odd but so endearing to see her smiling like that. Barbara was usually so calm and put together.

 

“Both! I mean, how is it possible, how does this-” Mercedes gestured between them, before clearing her throat, and then leaning in whispered, “ _ We’re both women, that’s _ …” she trailed off uncertainty,  _ what _ it was she wasn’t sure she even had the words to express, and she watched the tentative smile slip from Barbara’s lips. 

 

“Mercedes,” she sighed heavily, “what we feel for each other, is not wrong. How can this feeling possibly be wrong?” She voiced exactly what Mercedes herself had wondered, lying alone on her bed and tracing her lips as she remembered their first kiss, how it had made her feel, how _ Barbara  _ made her feel. And yet, when Mercedes had promised it would not happen again, Barbara had not refuted. How had things changed so much since then?

 

“How are you so sure? Not just of that, but of what you feel for me. After our kiss you said nothing, you let me say it was a mistake, you let me leave.” She watched Barbara shake her head ruefully, her gaze falling from Mercedes’ to trace the lines of the hardwood floor, their faded oakey brown reflected against the deep mahogany of her irises. She inhaled deeply, and chewed at her bottom lip for a moment before she replied. 

 

“The truth is Mercedes, that I knew the moment I laid eyes on you that I was in trouble. I thought at first that it would just be me, and that would have been fine, if I fell for you but it was unreturned. We could still be friends that way, I would still be able to enjoy your company, even if every time you kissed my cheek or told me that I was beautiful I was secretly dying inside. Sometimes I would think that maybe you felt something too, but then I would shake off such silly ideas, because surely _ how could you _ . But when we kissed- I realised that  _ I was terrified _ ,” her words caught in her mouth, and Mercedes reached out, catching the tips of her fingers where her hand fidgeted with a loose thread in her skirt, and Barbara sighed, smiling sadly down at her, “That I would scare you off, maybe. But also that I wouldn’t, that you would stay and that if you did, I would fall hopelessly in love with you.”

 

“And what do you think now?” Mercedes asked softly, controlling the tone of her voice carefully the same way that Barbara guided her to control how she played the notes of the piano when they required a delicate touch. Firm, but tender. She slid her fingers up over the palm of Barbara’s hand, making her shiver, and interlinked them loosely. She watched Barbara’s eyes lighten, just before the smile turned the nervous pink line of her lips up at the edges.

 

“Now, I think it might be too late to worry about that.”

 


	12. All Of Me Wants All Of You

“Now, I think it might be too late to worry about that.”

Mercedes had to bite her bottom lip to stop herself from grinning. The words seemed to settle in her chest, warm and sweet, filling her up from her heart to the tips of her toes and the top of her head. She swallowed nervously, trying to dampen her dry mouth so that she could speak without her tongue catching on her teeth.

“Are you saying…” she wanted to ask, to confirm. The idea of voicing it aloud and being wrong, after she had already risked so much in kissing Barbara for a second time, stopped her from completing the sentence. All her courage seemed to have been used up. The words were palpable on the top of her tongue though; she could feel them in her mouth, taste the sweetness of them washing over her tastebuds, sitting thick against the back of her throat.

As she paused Barbara’s eyes regarded her softly, affectionately tracing the lines of her face, her head tilted slightly to one side. The afternoon light through the living room window played through the waves of Mercedes hair, bringing out every varying shade of brown, highlighting every golden thread. Barbara thought how pretty she looked as she sat on the piano stool with her wide eyes like churning green seas. One hand curled in her skirt, scrunching the material in her fingers, cerulean cotton creased like crumpled paper. She could still see the fading pink at the base of Mercedes’ neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her dress; flush from the summer heat, from her rush through the garden, from the memory of their kiss still burning against her skin. She meant exactly what Mercedes thought, and she felt it aching in her chest as she met her eyes again. She didn’t say it, but she didn’t have to, because Mercedes could feel it in the way she was looking at her.

“Kiss me again,” Barbara whispered instead, using their intertwined fingers to tug Mercedes forward, up off of the stool and on to her feet, so that they were standing face to face and toe to toe. Mercedes leant up towards her, eyes closed and lips parted, her breathing fast as the hot air brushed the bottom of Barbara’s chin, until it lapped like the tide against her nervous mouth. Their lips brushed tentatively, this time Mercedes took her time, lightly ghosting Barbara’s mouth with the promise of a kiss as yet unfulfilled. Barbara’s hand, still held tightly in her own, squeezed without realising with an unsaid request and smiling Mercedes relented and closing the gap, she kissed her.

At first it was soft and delicate. Barbara loved the way that Mercedes lips felt against her own, and how they made her feel. A twisting mix of emotion and sensation and thought that played against each other, words churning in her stomach, butterflies spinning in her head. She loved the way that Mercedes sighed into her mouth as Barbara slid her free hand around her waist, and used it to pull her closer, so that every rise and fall of her chest pushed against Barbara’s own.

Mercedes’ free hand curved around the back of Barbara’s neck, pulling her down closer as she pushed up to where their mouths joined in the middle, both opening wider. So that Mercedes’ tentative tongue could tease along Barbara’s bottom lip, and Barbara’s could sweep along the length of Mercedes’ boldly; drawing not only a moan that Mercedes had never produced before, but stirring again the warmth burning through her body, and damp heat between her thighs. A heat that previously she had only felt few times before, whilst letting her imagination run wild on a simmering night beneath her covers, and never so strong as this. Then it had been a frustrated sort of longing that felt as though it could never be subdued, now it was an urgent and magnetic feeling that only drew her closer to the other woman. She pulled back for a moment, resisting the gravity that tugged in her chest, breathing heavily, the tips of their noses still pressed together. Their breath mingled, the heavy alcohol tinged sweetness of Barbara’s with the bitter coffee from her own.

“I’m not really sure what I’m doing, or how this works, but I-” she shivered as Barbara’s hand at the base of her back drew lazy patterns across the fabric of her dress just above her hip bone, “ _I want you_.” She heard Barbara groan, the fingers that had rested softly at her waist clutching at her now as though Barbara were trying to ground herself.

“Mercedes, we don’t… I mean, I want to, but only if you-” she watched Barbara flounder for a moment, fighting with herself to try to say the right thing, before Mercedes pushed her back against the piano and cut her off gently by pressing a kiss against the corner of her mouth, and then her cheek, and along the line of her jaw, until she reached the top of her neck just below Barbara’s ear. She felt her resistance melt away as Barbara’s breath hitched, and the hand still intertwined with hers squeezed gently again, pleading her to continue.   
  
Perhaps she didn’t  _know_ what to do, it was not something she had ever read about before, nothing she could study in some way or another, but it seemed it didn’t matter because instinctively her body seemed to have an idea, an innate sense of how to move and where to touch. If she closed her eyes and followed her senses, her desires, something in the pit of her stomach told her to suck gently at the base of Barbara’s neck, something lower down told her to nip at the spot, to run her tongue down the groove of her collar bone, before placing a kiss there, at the edge of Barbara’s dress. And she could tell from the reactions she elicited in Barbara’s body whether she was on the right track, the sounds she would make, or the way she would squirm and press into the touch of Mercedes’ mouth.

“Take off my dress,” Barbara requested, watching Mercedes nervously through half lidded eyes, the brown darker than usual, but warmer too. Mercedes released the grip of her hand that still held Barbara’s, their fingers disentangling so that she could reach up and undo the clasp at the back of Barbara’s dress, helping to gingerly tug the light material over the soft curves of Barbara’s freckled shoulders until it could fall freely down her frame to pool in folds around her feet.

Mercedes stepped back for a moment, out of the warmth and security of Barbara’s proximity, so that she could take in the sight. The soft expanse of her caramel skin, every curve, ever mole and freckle, every shadow dipping down beneath the cotton of her underwear. It was not that she had never seen another woman undressed before, but this was so entirely and distinctly different, for reasons that should have been obvious but still surprised her. Reasons that only renewed her clarity. To see Barbara undressed, and not only undressed but  _for her_ , for the other woman to make herself so vulnerable and so exposed was yet another way in which Barbara reassured her and at the same time declared again, and louder, how she felt for her. The way that it made Mercedes feel there was no mistaking, so many thoughts and sensations running through her head all at once like a cacophony of feeling and yet nothing had ever been so clear to her in all her life. She was in love with Barbara Roman. She loved her, and she wanted her, and she wanted to be touched by her, the very thought of it now becoming real felt like a fever over her skin.

“You are so incredibly beautiful,” she murmured, reaching forward to rest her hands on Barbara’s hips as she leant in to kiss her again, to capture her lips with urgency. Kissing her to convey how she felt. Kissing her so that Barbara knew how she adored her. Kissing her so that she might dissolve into the sensations, and fall into the stars that danced behind her eyes. She felt Barbara’s hands cup her cheeks as she kissed back, before they tangled in her hair, the tips of Barbara’s fingers grazing her scalp.

Steeling the nerves that twisted her stomach, Mercedes reached up and released the clasp of Barbara’s bra, so that the twisted straps could slide down her arms. She smirked against Barbara’s mouth as she heard her toss the garment aside, landing on the wooden floor somewhere across the living room and sliding over the floorboards. When Barbara leant into her kiss again Mercedes could feel her bare breasts pressed against her through the fabric of her dress, but she wanted to feel them against her skin.

Her nails skated across Barbara’s hips just above the waistband of her underwear in order to reach between them and undo the buttons of her own dress, her hands damp and clumsy. She felt Barbara giggle into their kiss sweetly as she fidgeted with the fasteners, one stuck just above her belly button that she couldn’t seem to pull free. Her mind was awash with heat, tumbling nervously between the ecstasy of Barbara’s tongue, and the frustration of her task until Barbara’s hands slid from her hair, running down the back of her neck and across her shoulders. Her fingers skated over Mercedes’ collar bone, down the now exposed skin of her chest in the opening of her dress, until she reached where Mercedes was stuck, taking over from her to pull the button free and then make quick work of the others, until the frock hung open from the collar down to the hem, the balmy afternoon air blowing across Mercedes’ stomach. She threw her shoulders back so that the cotton could slip down them, along the lengths of her arms to drape across the piano stool behind her.

“Mercedes,” she heard Barbara sigh before reclaiming her mouth in quick, soft kisses that made her stomach squirm delightfully, “My. Sweet. Mercedes.” Each word punctuated by a kiss, till Mercedes felt that she too was intoxicated; by the wine carried on Barbra’s tongue, by her touch, and by her affection. Intoxicated perhaps just enough to bolster her growing courage. She parted their lips just long enough to whisper against Barbara’s mouth, “ _take off my bra_ ,” and watch her swallow before obliging gladly, hands brushing past Mercedes’ hips, and up her back, to gracefully unhook and remove it.

This was the first time she had ever undressed before someone else like this, nothing like shyly changing into her nightgown at Augusta’s house when they were twelve, facing towards the bedroom wall, legs tangling in the skirt of her dress as she tried to move with haste. Now she stood before Barbara in only her underwear, the gentle afternoon sunlight caressing her uncovered skin. She had always imagined that she would feel exposed but with Barbara she felt only safe, her hands trembling with anxious anticipation rather than fear. Her heart raced faster as she felt Barbara’s eyes and hands and mouth exploring her body, discovering places Mercedes had never been touched before, and never dreamt of being touched. Kisses placed tenderly on the tops of her shoulders, fingers tracing the constellations of her freckles, eyes memorising every curve.

Barbara slid her hand into Mercedes’ underwear, through her soft curls, exploring cautiously and slowly, feeling the change in the rhythm of Mercedes’ breathing as she traced the length of her opening. Mercedes’ hips pushed up towards her hand imploringly, and she pressed a finger into the folds, exhaling sharply as she felt the damp heat against her finger tips. Her fingers moved with the same elegant dexterity with which she touched the piano keys, playing Mercedes, eliciting from her a chorus of moans like she was making music as they moved against her clitoris, working the bundle of nerves as she felt Mercedes’ mouth press into the crook of her neck, hands clutching at her shoulders. She felt herself ache with every press against Mercedes’ centre, every roll of the other woman’s hips urging her on.

“ _Te amo_ ,” Mercedes exhaled urgently into her skin, she didn’t have to fall, because the stars rushed up to meet her, and she felt herself release and melt into their infinite warmth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should probably be a last chapter kind of note, but I wanted to take the time to say so now, as the next chapter *may* be the last (I say tentatively, knowing what I can be like. That's the plan anyway). Thank you so, so much to all of the wonderful people who take the time to read this fic, and especially to those who leave much too generous comments letting me know how you feel about it. I love to hear your thoughts, and am thrilled to know you are enjoying it still.


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